Post Tenebras Lux
by thx10050
Summary: A Draenei Paladin sworn to battle the darkness; a Blood Elf Mage on a quest for vengeance. Together they will confront the rise of an evil that threatens to engulf Azeroth in shadow.
1. Chapter 1

((Author's Note: In an effort to revitalize my own interest in continuing the sequel I began for this story a while back, I've decided to repost Post Tenebras Lux with some editing and a few new sections, as well as a new chapter added at the beginning. Hopefully, these will help flesh out Cyros' background as the main character.

I should first mention that this project was (and still is) meant to be an epic, heroic fantasy story, which obviously may not be everyone's cup of tea (or coffee or whatever). The heroes are written to be larger-than-life, the villains are dark and monstrous, and the action and dialogue contained herein are both meant to be dramatic as well as impressive, without going over-the-top too much hopefully. Some of this might change for the sequel though, to descend more towards realism (World of Warcraft-wise at least) while still retaining the 'epic' feel I'm trying to convey. Please note, however, this really is my first attempt at writing a combination action/romance story, and as you will probably tell, action is really my specialty, but hopefully the romance doesn't come off too weak and out of place, nor too abrupt as it did in the first iteration. It's still quick, but due to the short length of this story, hopefully it can still be accepted.

I began writing this story after I read - and was subsequently inspired by - some other Warcraft fiction on this website, most notably The War Song by T. Mirai and In a Dark Place by Nara Bluestar. I highly recommend both of their stories. They are excellent writers and have plainly worked very hard on their own contributions to this website.

Editing and general brainstorming was assisted with by WoMo and VoiDreamer, both from this website. They are excellent writers as well (VoiDreamer has assisted me on a past project) and they were of invaluable assistance with this story.

Game-wise, this story takes place obviously during the Burning Crusade, but before Wrath of the Lich King. I always appreciate any constructive feedback as well as general encouragement, whatever the case may be.

Thank you and please enjoy.))

**Post Tenebras Lux**

The ornate warhammer lashed out in a deadly arc as Cyros charged forward, a hulking mountain of blue flesh and silvery plate armor amidst the grotesque and misshapen forms of the Scourge.

They had been fighting for what felt like hours now. Already the setting sun was casting its bright orange-red glow across the land below. Its brilliant light reflected off the gleaming purple crystal head of his weapon moments before it landed with a shuddering impact against decaying flesh, shattering the weak bones beneath and bursting lifeless organs. Within an instant, the draenei vindicator was surrounded yet again by twisted monsters, their fingernails grown into hardened claws, black with filth and corruption. The howling, screeching ghouls pressing in around him were as nothing before Cyros' fury, the weakest of the Scourge's soldiers, but they nevertheless continued to hurl themselves against him in their dozens, seeking to bear him down with sheer weight of numbers.

If the vindicator had been less focused, any less the warrior he was, perhaps he would have been forced to bow before their vicious onslaught, but today his holy purpose gave him the edge.

Cyros pushed his way forward resolutely, moving fast and true, an unstoppable juggernaut. His warhammer was little more than a blur in his armored hands. With teeth bared, his angular, almost aquiline features twisted into a feral snarl, he swung and thrust, chopped and slashed, the ghouls' pestilent bodies falling before him in droves. His eyes were luminous blue-white orbs of fire, narrowed in grim determination and blazing with righteous fury. Every so often, the vindicator would pause for an instant to consecrate the tainted ground beneath his dark purple hooves, fiery golden energies exploding upward from the hard dark soil as it was cleansed and blessed by the power of the Holy Light. The undead packed in around him writhed and shrieked as the divine sanctification stripped them down to black ashes, but still they continued to press forward. Claws scraped and tore ineffectually across his silver breastplate. Rotted fangs chipped and shattered against his arms and shoulders.

The paladin had disdained the use of a helmet for this battle. Let these foul creatures behold the unyielding resolute face of their destroyer. Let them look upon him with fear in their final moments of unlife.

Slowly, but surely, Cyros forced a path towards the looming walls of Andorhal, its black gates hanging open like a festering wound to unleash this tide of evil upon the world. His entire armored form glowed with a faint golden light, from his hooves to his black hair that rose up behind his forehead's twin angular plates of bone, cropped short and spiky. His body was consumed in the aura of just retribution. For every blow the undead struck at him, jagged tendrils of holy energy lashed out to inflict destruction twice-fold upon them. The ghouls killed themselves even as they attempted to end the vindicator's life. During the brief moments of clarity as he fought, Cyros savored this unremitting holy vengeance in the name of the Light.

It seemed all too soon for the paladin as the ghouls' numbers were thinned, dozens of them returned to the abyss that spawned them. Even before the last monstrosity had crumpled to the ground, he was already striding onwards, the creature's head cracking apart beneath his diamond-hard hooves. Cyros knew he could not permit himself even a moment's rest. These ghouls had been mere fodder, nothings to be spent easily to weaken him. Though they had failed, the vindicator knew their masters would surely not be far behind.

Already he could see them advancing forth from the black gates to finish him. These were not mere animated corpses, but skeletal warrior elite, each wielding a rusty weapon and armored in black plate and dull mail. Blood-red fire burned ominously within their empty eye sockets as they tramped forwards, marching in perfect unison, and their fleshless mouths seemed to form mocking smiles.

With a roar of fury, Cyros charged forward to meet them, his crystal warhammer cleaving through their bodies, shattering bones into mere shards and dust. Their weapons cut and stabbed at him, but his plate armor held true against their onslaught as the paladin knew it would, blessed by the Holy Light. As before, he was hemmed in, surrounded on all sides, but whereas a lesser warrior might fear such circumstances and seek to escape them, Cyros reveled in them. Pressed in so close around him, none of the Scourge could escape his wrath as his warhammer lashed out in unstoppable blows to smash them apart. Holy energies blazed, destroying the armored skeletons utterly. Not even the most powerful of their dread masters would be able to raise these servants ever again.

Through the terrible destruction, Cyros advanced, with every movement and every gesture a killing blow. His enemies seemed as legion, but it did not matter, for he was their equal, a champion of the Holy Light, blessed by the Naaru, to sear away the Darkness. His warhammer swung out in a mighty arc, felling six more skeletons, cutting them down like wheat before a scythe.

Ahead, twenty more made their stand, closing in together to form an impenetrable phalanx of bone and metal. The vindicator smiled grimly as he advanced upon them. Raising a large armored fist, he exploded their formation apart with a bolt of golden energy, striding onward even as the remnants of his power incinerated the bodies beneath his hooves. Charging forward unopposed, Cyros was amongst them before they could react, the skeletal figures writhing and falling into shattered pieces as the paladin hewed a path to the very threshold of the gates themselves. Unable to stand against him, the skeletons fell back, retreating in disarray.

But then...

But then Cyros heard the sound of heavy footfalls, the dull clank of plate armor. It was this sound that warned him of his enemy's approach, a deep and rhythmic pounding of great weight upon broken cobblestones. The vindicator paused, raising his warhammer, gauntleted hands clenched tight around the long adamantite haft.

The draenei paladin could _feel_ his enemy approaching, could feel the malice and rage, vast energies dark and corrupted pressing down on him as if he suddenly carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Cyros' blazing eyes narrowed. His ruse had worked. By attacking the enemy's stronghold directly, he had managed to lure the Scourge's fell commander out into the open. Here and now he would cut down the enemy leader and destroy his growing army.

At last the paladin saw his foe as the figure strode out from beyond the thick wafting curtain of vile greenish mist obscuring the interior of the damned city of Andorhal.

He had surely been a tall and powerful human man in life, but no longer and never again. Now he was a foul monstrosity. He wore an ancient suit of once ornate plate armor, blackened with rust and corruption, and adorned with serrated blades and corroded spikes. A stained and ragged purple cloak hung from his shoulders, flapping in the chill breeze, the hood enshrouding his head in an impenetrable darkness. From within the shadowy depths, two red eyes glared at Cyros with unnatural fury. In his right gauntleted fist, he gripped a fearsome morningstar. The long haft of the weapon had been shaped from a large bone, the rusty chain was thick and spiky, and the bladed head looked to have been carved from a singular block of obsidian, dark purple energies crackling across its surface. On his left arm, he bore a rectangular tower shield nearly as large as he was tall. It was a terrible sight to behold, wrapped in human skins, dried and desiccated, and reinforced with bands of black iron.

The vindicator met his enemy's blazing eyes with his own, reflecting back the hatred and revulsion he felt radiating from the death knight in palpable waves. Alas that such a mighty warrior should have been raised up and twisted by black necromancy into the loathsome mockery that stood before him.

The death knight spoke, his deep voice whispering, as cold and empty as the frigid northern winds.

"Enough, paladin. You came to challenge me and so here I stand."

There could be only one answer.

Both vindicator and death knight exploded into action at the same moment, charging forward to engage in mortal combat, their weapons lashing out with deadly speed and precision.

Cyros was taken aback by his opponent's tremendous strength and martial skill as he was forced back almost immediately upon the defensive. The air was filled with twisting energies as they dueled, golden light flaring against ebon darkness. For a moment, doubt clouded the paladin's mind, but he banished it quickly from his thoughts. The death knight was a soulless unholy abomination and as such Cyros would assuredly cast him down in the name of the Holy Light.

The hard stone blocks of the gatehouse walls cracked and shattered from the power of their blows. The rotted and burnt wood of the gates split and tore as the combatants pressed close to them. Every blow, every strike, was a potential killer; every block, every smash, bone-breaking. And then, before Cyros could truly comprehend it, their war was abruptly over.

It was a tiny thing, a mistimed sweep of his warhammer, a seemingly inconsequential flaw in the flowing sequence of strike upon strike. But it left him open and vulnerable, and the death knight moved swiftly to exploit his weakness. His shield slammed hard into the paladin, throwing Cyros back off-balance, even as the morningstar whipped snake-like fast through the air to crash into the draenei's left side. The vindicator bit back a scream as searing pain engulfed him, his ribs cracking under the force of the impact, the plate armor now torn and buckled. He could feel the black corruption from his enemy's weapon oozing into the grievous wounds, contaminating with a venomous swiftness.

The death knight stepped forward again, smashing Cyros squarely in the face with the edge of his heavy shield. Bones crunched, blood flowed, and the vindicator fell back, stunned, landing with a crash of thick plate armor against the cobblestones. His enemy strode over to glare imperiously down at the fallen draenei and began to raise his morningstar high for the final blow that would end this duel.

Even as Cyros began to comprehend his shameful failure, the death knight staggered suddenly, orange-red flames exploding around him, sending him reeling. The dark warrior backed away, cursing harshly, out of the draenei's dimming vision. Then someone was crouching next to the fallen paladin, cradling his head in soft hands. He knew she was shouting something at him, for it was a woman's voice, but he could barely hear her, she seemed so distant. At last, he understood a part of what she was saying. Summoning what little strength he had left, the vindicator used his inherent ability, a gift granted to all draenei by the Naaru, to begin healing himself.

But it was not so mighty a gift that it kept Cyros from slipping down into the darkness of oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

((Author's Note: Some of you might recognize the basis of this chapter from a draenei-only quest available at the end of the intermediate starting zone on Bloodmyst Isle... :) ))

**Chapter Two**

_**Two years earlier...**_

"Harbinger Cyros," A relatively mild and soft yet still firm voice called out, an underlying tone of unquestionable authority weaving through the words as they echoed across the far walls and ceiling. "Please step forward."

_At least they still honor me with my rank_, Cyros thought grimly.

_For now..._

The harbinger rose to both of his hooves smoothly from where he'd been kneeling rather awkwardly on one knee. As he did so, the draenei shook his legs out slightly to ease aching muscles and automatically reached about to readjust his armor, before walking purposefully forward in even, measured strides. His dark purple hooves thumped heavily against the thick floor of grayish-blue stone and bright crystal formations.

Slightly shorter than the average draenei male, Cyros nevertheless towered up at almost seven feet in height when standing even semi-erect, with a wider and more powerful build that bespoke great strength. Long years of wielding myriad weapons in both intense training sessions and brutal hand-to-hand combat - and before that, wielding both blacksmith's hammer and woodcutter's axe - had thickened the muscles of his broad torso, bulging beneath dark blue flesh, as well as his large goat-like legs.

Fully armored from chest to hooves in his finely crafted, yet well-worn battle-plate of dull silver and burnished gold, the harbinger presented a formidable sight, standing tall and proud despite the grave circumstances. His weapon of choice - an ancient ornate warhammer of dark adamantite metal and gleaming purple crystal - was slung in its oiled leather harness across his back, its haft poking out over his right shoulder pauldron and within easy reach of his large hands.

Cyros' eyes momentarily traveled appreciatively across the vast expanse of the Vault of Lights. It was well-named, for the wondrous white, pink, and purple crystal clusters that composed the walls and ceiling, along with the glass-smooth pearlescent stone, were lit up brilliantly by the mixture of arcane and holy energy surging through the Exodar itself. Soft golden light akin to the warm rays of this new world's sun shone down from the ceiling while crackling streams of blue and purple energy danced along the walls and formed intricate symbols across the ground.

The harbinger's eyebrows furrowed for an instant in a frown as he noted more than a few massive cracks and jagged scars marring the otherwise wondrous architecture, the thick support beams beneath exposed like the dark bones of a vast skeleton. Those sights were clear evidence in a way that even after two months on this new and strange world, hard work still had to be done in order to secure the future of the draenei people.

Usually the Vault would have been filled with the hustle and bustle of draenei going about their business within the Exodar, but for the time being it was empty of all save a handful. His gaze now focused on the figures standing before him, looking down at the harbinger from the top of a broad flight of crystal stairs at whose base Cyros now stood.

First among the four awaiting the harbinger's approach was the draenei's revered and venerable leader, Velen, whose prophecies granted by the Naaru and his wondrous attunement to the Holy Light had long guided and protected the draenei people for hundreds of years. Dressed in ceremonial robes of rich gold and purple cloth, Velen's white-bearded visage seemed deceptively youthful, for his piercing eyes were no less dim and sharp despite his age, and his posture still remained erect and proud. Ancient and wise, powerful but caring and gentle as well, Velen seemed to represent the very best of the draenei and all who spoke with him or stood merely within his presence couldn't help but be moved by his sheer aura of charisma and strength.

A wry smile flitted across the Prophet's lips as he waved Cyros onward with a slight gesture.

"Come forward, Cyros, for we should be conversing, harbinger, not shouting across great distances to make ourselves heard."

Even as the paladin began walking up the steps, he beheld the three other heavily armored draenei take a step forward in unison as he did so, clustering near Velen in a protective manner. Their faces were tense and their eyes were narrowed glowing slits of suspicion as they tracked his progress carefully.

_So_, Cyros thought coldly, resentment mixing acidly with shame to churn his stomach, his chest tightening as his twin hearts beat even faster. His short bone-plated tail lashed about in clear agitation. _They do not trust me even in the presence of Velen himself._

The harbinger had recognized them earlier, for there could be no mistaking Vindicators Boros, Kuros, and Aesom, who together formed the Triumvirate of the Hand. Though possessing the rank of vindicator for the sake of formality, these three paladins were the appointed commanders of the recently formed Hand of Argus. They were stalwart holy warriors who answered only to Prophet Velen himself in matters concerning the protection and security of the draenei, and as such, their authority and rank far exceeded Cyros' own.

The harbinger paused halfway up the steps, his eyes meeting the unblinking stares of the Triumvirate with a steady gaze, refusing to be cowed by their mere presence.

It was Velen himself who interrupted the standoff, stepping forward while waving at the Triumvirate to back down.

"Please," The prophet-leader said calmly. "There's no need for this nonsense. The harbinger is certainly not here to assassinate me."

"You did not see firsthand the savagery of this _barbarian_ during the battle at Bloodmyst Isle, Prophet Velen," Aesom spat venomously, glaring down at Cyros. "He brought shame and dishonor upon all of our warriors that day with his actions."

"No self-control, no discipline," Boros agreed harshly, hands clenching into tight fists. "Cyros abandoned his training and the sacred teachings; he fought with viciousness and brutality. He wielded the Holy Light as a mere weapon, using its power to smash down his enemies rather than-"

"Enough!" Velen said sharply, half-turning to look at the three draenei of the Triumvirate, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. "The events you speak of, vindicators, are not unknown to me. As old as I may be, I have not become blind just yet."

"Our apologies, Prophet Velen," Kuros said, interjecting as he stepped forward to salute their leader respectfully. "My brother-paladins spoke hastily, without proper consideration. We will, of course, defer to your wisdom and judgement."

"Is this a military tribunal, Prophet Velen?" Cyros asked boldly, his deep voice projecting strongly to echo off the far walls of the Vault. "Am I being placed on trial?"

"No, you are not, harbinger," Velen replied quickly, turning his attention back to Cyros before the Triumvirate could raise their own voices in objection. "But your actions at Bloodmyst Isle do need to be examined. I ask that you describe in your own words what happened during the battle against the blood elves there, amongst the debris of the Exodar's vector coil."

"Very well; I will do as you wish," Cyros said calmly.

"I will tell you how I tried to kill Sironas."

- - - - -

Vindicator Kuros, resplendent in his finely polished gold and black plate armor, shook his head, a sharp and annoyed jerk. The two strong tendrils jutting from his chin flapped with the abrupt movement as his eyebrows furrowed into a frown.

"Your place isn't on the frontline, Harbinger Cyros," He said firmly. "We've discussed this more than I should have allowed. You were right to report this situation to us, but the Triumvirate is here now and _we_ will decide how best to proceed."

Cyros strained to hold his tongue as he took a step back within the tall field tent, barely managing to bite back the savage retort that he had been about to spit from between clenched teeth. Anger swelled within him, the muscles of his broad torso tensing as his eyes narrowed into a furious glare.

The harbinger had already known the newly appointed vindicators of the Triumvirate had the reputation for being unwavering, resolute, and unforgiving as well, but never had he truly expected this sort of treatment. Kuros, as the eldest and most experienced of the Triumvirate, had become its unofficial leader, with Boros and Aesom deferring to Kuros' unspoken authority more than a few times in the past. Cyros had already anticipated some of what he had been told upon the Triumvirate's arrival at Blood Watch outpost, for he knew all too well how most of his fellow draenei - both soldiers and citizens alike - viewed him, the whispers and the judgements that surrounded his name...

For years now Cyros had been a survivor first and foremost. If the running war across Draenor against the unstoppable tide of bloodthirsty greenskins and their demon-touched masters had taught him anything - if the terrible loss he personally had suffered had taught him anything - it was that survival was paramount. Everyone had to stand firm and fight or else everyone would die. Unwavering steel had to form where only backbones had been before, for the orcs had spared none in their brutal, relentless advances, hacking down even the elderly and the infirm, making no distinction between adult and child. All had been slaughtered without mercy.

And so Cyros was a paladin only second, a follower of the Holy Light, though the butchery of his people years past had caused him long ago to question his beliefs, his devotion, even his very own faith at times. He had been taught - had _believed_ - that the Light was all that was good and pure and just. And yet the destruction of the draenei had still been allowed. There had been so much blood, so much death... How could the Light have allowed that to happen?

Even their so-called guardians and protectors, the Naaru, had done _nothing_ as the draenei were hunted down and slain. The systematic massacre had made no rational sense to Cyros... Yet still the harbinger had clung, like a drowning man in his desperation, to his training, the ideologies and the prayers he had been taught since he had first joined the ranks of the holy paladins as an initiate. Perhaps...Perhaps the Holy Light had judged them all unworthy of its power and grace. If that was so, then Cyros would rise above his brethren and prove the strength of the draenei people.

Thus it was that the burning hatred of the orcs - of _all_ enemies of his beleaguered people - had set Cyros apart from the others. Many had been the times he had been prepared to sell his life dearly in order to secure yet another desperate flight away in the face of their unholy pursuers. And always he had withdrawn with the others at Velen's bidding, for the prophet-leader's ever-calm and steady commands were not something he could deny, even in his own heart. Once - and only once - Cyros had glimpsed what lay beneath Velen's eyes. He had seen clearly for an instant the helpless anger and terrible burning frustration that mirrored his own feelings. And because of this anger, this unquenchable fury, he had become a solitary one, training alone and eating alone, his steadfast belief in Prophet Velen's leadership coupled with his dwindling faith in the Holy Light sustaining him.

Cyros had later fought alongside the Prophet himself in their battle to seize the Exodar from those who declared themselves to be _sin'dorei_, an alien-sounding word in Cyros' ears to this very day. That day he had personally slain almost two dozen of the weak pale-skinned creatures, crushing them into bloody ruins beneath his warhammer, armored fists, and hooves or exploding them apart with mighty blasts of the Holy Light itself that they could not stand against. But afterwards, when the Exodar had crashed into what had later been named Azuremyst Isle, he been ordered by the Triumvirate to travel north with the scouting parties and engineers.

The Triumvirate could no longer tolerate what many of the draenei already called a demon-tainted berserker in their midst and even Velen had not countermanded their decree.

In the weeks that followed, as roads were cut out of the surrounding wilderness and sturdy bridges built to connect nearby islands, Cyros had eventually found himself stationed on the very northern border of Blood Watch outpost, alone as usual. He had been tasked with keeping a vigilant eye on those of the blood elves that had also survived the crash and were now gathering, for some unknown reason, amongst the debris of the Exodar's vector coil. The duty, carried out diligently every day without fail, suited him perfectly. The newly created Hand of Argus garrison, which had been organized from all the surviving draenei soldiers and paladins, couldn't truly afford to launch a major offensive so soon to scour their claimed islands clean of this new foe. But Cyros had made a grim promise to himself that if these blood elves even made the slightest aggressive movement toward any draenei holdings, he would endeavor to bar their path, alone if need be.

"We placed you here at Blood Watch to observe and then report the enemy's activities, as you well know. You're certainly not here to play foolish games, such as pretending you're a one-draenei army, harbinger," Kuros continued sternly, jolting Cyros from his reflection.

Cyros almost bared his teeth in a feral snarl, his bone-plated tail lashing about in clear agitation.

"They are building portals of some kind, Vindicator Kuros," He replied slowly, his voice tightly controlled, barely stomaching the use of the formal title. "Those blood elves are drawing power from the interdimensional vector coil to open what they call 'Sun Gates' for reinforcements. I myself don't even know how many more of them have come through to support the ones already here."

"And just how did you come by all of this information?" Aesom asked sharply, taking a step forward, his glowing eyes narrowed and hard.

The harbinger simply glared at him, but didn't answer, his posture visibly stiffening.

"I see," Aesom said severely, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "Then I am in complete agreement with Kuros: we will not deny you the honor of joining this battle, Cyros, but nor will we allow you to fight at the forefront of this assault. This is an enemy still mostly unknown to us. We cannot afford..._impetuous_ actions during the attack that might cost us a swift and decisive victory."

Boros nodded in affirmation as well, favoring the harbinger with a cold gaze.

Cyros' luminous blue-white eyes flicked back and forth between all three vindicators of the Triumvirate for a long moment. Kuros himself had to fight from taking a step back as the intense stare swept across him. The harbinger studied each carefully in turn, before his eyes finally settled once again on Kuros.

"Is this your final decision then?" The harbinger asked flatly, his voice deathly quiet.

"It is," Kuros replied firmly, nodding as he glanced at Aesom and Boros. "We are all in agreement."

Cyros spun around without another word and strode towards the open flaps of the field tent, making to leave. His hooves thumped heavily against the ground that had been stained a strange crimson color by contamination from the Exodar's debris.

"Cyros!" Kuros called out sharply just as the harbinger reached the entrance and he was almost grateful to see Cyros pause, his horned head half-turning to listen. "Do I have your word you'll obey our command?"

For a long minute, the silence within the command tent was deafening, broken only by the varied sounds of preparations by the reinforced Blood Watch garrison from beyond.

"You have my word that I will protect and defend our people to my last breath, vindicator," Cyros replied levelly at long last, before striding out of the tent and disappearing from sight.

"We need to keep an eye on him," Boros said a moment later, stepping forward to join the other two vindicators. "There's no telling what he might do during the battle; who he might see as the enemy and then kill..."

"Cyros would never harm another draenei unless it was absolutely necessary," Kuros snapped, glaring at Boros. "Despite everything he has become over the past several years, I will not deny that he is _still_ a paladin, a warrior dedicated to the Holy Light. If he was truly demon-tainted or corrupted in some other way as the rumors go, the Light would never have stayed within his reach and yet he grasps it still. Even Prophet Velen and the Naaru themselves have not passed judgement on him."

"He's a raging killer nonetheless and you know it, Kuros," Aesom declared vehemently, his eyes narrowed. "You saw with your own eyes how he fought against these blood elves before; you heard the stories of how many orcs he cut down during our flight into Zangarmarsh." Aesom's face twisted into a glare. "The Holy Light is nothing to him now; it has become a weapon to be used in battle and no more."

"I will not continue this conversation, vindicators!" Kuros growled, forcibly biting back the frustrated shout that was creeping up his throat. His next words seemed to spill forth from his mouth before he could stop them. "You may not know it, but that draenei was forced to watch as his wife was raped to death and then decapitated by the greenskin abominations! He barely escaped a life of slavery by killing his captors with his own shackles and their weapons!"

"_Everyone_ lost at least one that was dear to their heart during those dark times, Kuros!" Boros replied, raising his voice stubbornly, a tremor of emotion rippling through his words. "That doesn't excuse the vengeance he's taken upon himself or how far he's allowed himself to fall. When I look upon him," The vindicator continued, his voice now thick with disgust. "I don't know whether I'm seeing a brother-paladin or perhaps a greenskin in disguise."

Kuros whirled upon Boros in shock, his eyes wide and flaring at such an insult. If Cyros had been within earshot of those words, the lifeblood of Boros or the harbinger would have been spilled in an instant.

It was at that moment a young draenei soldier burst unceremoniously into the command tent, almost slamming into the map table placed at the center as he skidded to a stop. His simple uniform of unadorned plate-mail and a Hand of Argus tabard identified him as a peacekeeper, the lowest rank of soldiers currently.

"Vindicators!" He cried out, almost breathless. Whether it was from excitement or exertion the Triumvirate could not tell. "Sirs, forgive this intrusion, but it's Harbinger Cyros! He's gone!"

"Gone?" Aesom snapped before Kuros or Boros could say anything. "Gone where?"

"He demanded a war-elekk from Astur and then left. Last anyone saw of him, he was heading west towards the vector coil. And Demolitionist Legoso went with him!"

"What?" Kuros fairly shouted as he slammed a heavy fist down onto the table, scattering maps and parchment and almost knocking over the ornate candle holders they had bartered from the strange race to the north that called themselves night elves. "What was Legoso thinking? Do they honestly believe they can defeat the enemy by themselves, just the two of them? Overzealous fools!"

"What should we do?" Boros asked hesitatingly, his voice filled with unease as he glanced back and forth between Aesom and Kuros. "We can't mobilize our forces here at Blood Watch fast enough to stop them, but they know our battle-plans and so if the blood elves manage to capture them alive..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken thought clear.

Aesom seemed likewise torn, tail twitching anxiously as his gauntleted hands repeatedly clenched tightly into fists before relaxing. Twice it seemed as if he would rouse himself to speak, but then he would lapse once more into silence a moment later, unable to give voice to what his conscience was screaming at him deep within.

It was Kuros who made the decision.

"We go after them now, immediately," He said as he began to walk towards the open tent flaps, ignoring the peacekeeper that was still watching all three of them nervously with youthful inexperienced eyes.

"You realize-" Aesom began, glancing up as the pragmatism within asserted itself.

"I will _not_ let them die alone," Kuros avowed between gritted teeth, glancing back to glare at Aesom and Boros both, though his ire wasn't directed at either of them. In the next moment his face softened. "Too many have died already..." He whispered sorrowfully as if to himself, before his voice rose strongly once more. "We will go after them at once. Make ready what soldiers we have here at Blood Watch, vindicators; the rest of the Hand will continue to guard the Exodar should we fail. But whether we are prepared or not, we will take the battle to the enemy _now_."

Aesom and Boros both saluted Kuros sharply before following him from the tent.

- - - - -

"Harbinger!" Demolitionist Legoso shouted in warning, his voice a rasping cry. "Behind you!"

Cyros whirled around in an instant to confront a blood elf woman, a leather-armored scout that had been trying to circle around behind the towering draenei paladin as he smashed his way brutally through the Sun Gates' defenders, golden holy energies flaring about him. Whirling his warhammer aloft, Cyros sent it swinging outward in an unstoppable strike at the surprised scout, snapping the slender short sword the blood elf managed to raise in feeble defense and crushing the left half of her face inward. Scarlet blood and white shards of bone exploded from the horrific wound and the blood elf herself was launched off her booted feet into the air. Her limp body flew for over seven strides to crash in a pitiful heap against the unyielding ground.

His teeth bared in a feral snarl, the harbinger spun back around and charged another small group of blood elves that were gathering together to push back the onslaught, his hooves pounding the ground steadily. Roaring wordlessly, Cyros sprang forward in a mighty leap and was amongst them in an instant, his warhammer lashing out to punish their impudence.

To think that weaklings such as these could stand firm against the likes of him!

Weapons struck out at Cyros from all sides with eye-blurring speed as the blood elves answered his battle-cry with shouts of their own, counter-attacking fiercely. Most of their elegant swords, ornate daggers, and strangely flowing spear points either rebounded or slid ineffectually off of his silver and gold plate armor with ear-piercing screeches and clangs of metal against metal, each blow accompanied by showers of blinding sparks.

But Cyros didn't remain unhurt as he fought.

The harbinger hissed under his breath as sharp bursts of fiery pain told him where their weapons found some of the vulnerable gaps in his plate armor, slashing through the chainmail and into the dark blue flesh beneath. But the terrible pain only meant the harbinger was still alive and if that was so, then he could still fight. Blood elf jaws dropped open in horror and glowing green eyes widened in shock as swords were shattered, armor was crumpled, and spear shafts snapped. Sanguine blood spurted and bones cracked, and then Cyros was clear once more, leaving their fallen broken bodies in his wake and striding onward, continuing the relentless advance.

Demolitionist Legoso was fighting steadily by the harbinger's side. He was providing ranged support against the blood elves' mages and their few archers, unleashing crackling purple-white blasts of arcane energy from the strange capacitors he had built into the forearms and gauntlets of his mail suit of armor. Not untrained in close-combat however, the large flanged mace clenched firmly in the demolitionist's right fist beat back any blood elf that made it too close with swift and accurate strikes.

Together, Cyros and Legoso had taken the blood elf soldiers by surprise, their unexpected assault easily piercing through to the very base of the path leading upwards to the Exodar's vector coil. Blood elves had fallen beneath or fled in disarray from the insane attack by the two draenei, confusion and chaos running rampant for several long and crucial minutes. But as order was steadily restored - commanders shouting near desperate orders and bringing their more disciplined soldiers together to support the pyromancers and scouts - the blood elves slowly coalesced into a unified force that even now was bringing the brunt of its strength to bear on the two interlopers.

Forced to dismount earlier than anticipated as their elekks were finally killed beneath them, Cyros and Legoso were making slow, but nonetheless steady progress up the path, driving back the blood elves that tried to oppose them. But in the next minute, they found themselves facing off against a large phalanx of determined Sunhawk defenders, their shields locked together in a glimmering wall of polished gold and red metal. Behind them, safe and protected, several mages raised their hands, smiling haughtily as they freely directed the fury of their spells against the two draenei.

"Find cover, Cyros!" Legoso shouted, even as he loosed a jagged blast of arcane energy, fireballs and magic missiles exploding all around him as he fled back down the path in a stumbling rush. His armor scorched and smoking, the demolitionist almost dove behind a large boulder for protection. Legoso quickly raised his head in the next moment to look back up the path, his glowing eyes seeking out the harbinger's armored form.

What he saw made his eyes widen in shock, his mouth almost dropping open wide.

Caught in the open before he could flee and forced down upon one knee by the magical bombardment, the harbinger refused to bow completely beneath the terrible assault, a thin flickering shield of bright golden energy protecting him. Summoned from within and maintained by sheer will alone, the paladin strained to keep the barrier intact, sweat pouring down from his forehead and neck, his teeth clenched and grinding together audibly.

Bleeding from numerous cuts and slashes, muscles bruised and swollen beneath his armor, Cyros at last raised his head slowly. His face was a twisted glare of defiance as he watched the oncoming blood elves marching relentlessly down towards him, their gleaming swords unsheathed and ready for the kill. The paladin's lungs burned with exhaustion, his chest heaving like a blacksmith's bellows, and his twin hearts beat a wild tattoo against his ribs. The adrenaline storming through his body forced an unnatural clarity upon him and he could see the confident smiles on the blood elves' thin lips, could almost hear their spiteful laughter.

The mages behind the defensive formation ceased their assault as the front rank reached Cyros. The golden shield surrounding the harbinger faded away, but he wasn't finished just yet. With a hoarse shout, the paladin flung himself at his enemies in a lunge, warhammer raised high, determined to take some at least down with him before the end.

The deep rumbling of the ground beneath his hooves and the blood elves' emerald-green eyes widening suddenly in fear and shock within their curved helmets were the only warnings he had.

"_Charge!_" Vindicator Kuros roared as his war-elekk slammed fearlessly into the phalanx like a juggernaut. He was followed an instant later by Vindicators Boros and Aesom, and then more than two score of other draenei warriors mounted on squealing, trumpeting elekks. Blood elves were immediately crushed into the ground beneath rearing, stamping hooves, impaled on armored tusks with razor-sharp blades, or knocked clean off their booted feet by terrible blows from the dozens of soldiers that rushed forward, following in the wake of the charge with long loping strides.

Even as the vanguard of the charge thundered by Cyros, scattering the blood elves before him into a panicked retreat, he pursued the _sin'dorei_ relentlessly, smashing them down from behind even as they tried to flee. The harbinger wasted no more breath on anything else save the rise and fall of his blood-spattered warhammer, his hooves stomping down to crack the skulls and break the spines of those who had fallen.

The draenei's numbers though were too few to prevent the bulk of their enemies from escaping, but the hammer blow had caught their foes completely off-guard. The demoralized blood elves had beheld hundreds upon hundreds of roaring, shouting draenei charging them when there had actually been a little less than two hundred at the most. And these were the most battle-ready draenei the Triumvirate could assemble from the Hand of Argus at Blood Watch on such short notice.

Vindicator Kuros knew he couldn't lose the momentum of their hasty attack. He jerked on the reins of his war-elekk, turning the great beast around so that he could wave a gauntleted hand at the trumpeters in the midst of his force, signaling them to sound the charge again.

"Onwards!" The vindicator shouted, brandishing aloft the huge mace of dark blue and purple metal he gripped in his right hand, as if to form a living standard to rally his warriors. "Don't let them regroup! Drive these blood elves back to-!"

Kuros didn't get a chance to finish as a bolt of crackling green-white energy exploded against his armored back.

The unexpected attack smashed him bodily from his saddle as if a great hand reached down to slap him from it, the air exploding from his lungs in a choking grunt of agony. He crashed down onto his right side, his right arm twisting painfully under him as he rolled for several seconds, the mace at last tearing loose from his straining grasp. The vindicator ended up face-down against the ground, coughing and wheezing for breath, his arms and legs twitching spasmodically as he tried to fight against the after-effects of the magical strike. Shaking his head to regain his senses, he blinked slowly to clear his flashing vision, hearing the concerned shouts and the pounding of hooves against the ground as Hand of Argus soldiers rushed to his aid.

"Foolish little creatures," A strange hissing voice called out sharply only a moment later, the spiteful tone fairly dripping with malevolence. "Did you think that which opposes you wasn't fully prepared for your pitiful meddling?"

Kuros suddenly felt an armored hand clamping down tight under his right shoulder in the next moment, fingers digging awkwardly into his armpit. In the next instant, he found himself heaved unceremoniously up onto his hooves, a wave of dizziness washing over him from the rapid ascent. Staggering, he discovered the hand still hadn't let go, steadying him purposefully until Kuros could stand somewhat firmly on his own. Glancing to his left, the vindicator's eyes widened in surprise to see Cyros standing next to him, but the harbinger's hard gaze wasn't fixed on Kuros, instead glaring at something else.

It was something that stood beyond the gathered clump of draenei warriors and shuffling elekks. Something that towered over all of them...

Clad in fantastically ornate red plate armor with elegant sweeping curves and fanged skulls of gold, the being standing before them could have passed for a hauntingly beautiful draenei woman...had she not stood over ten feet in height with a distinct scarlet hue to her flawless purple skin. Her twin horns were sharply pointed, emerging from her forehead to curve back across her long and lustrous black hair. Her narrowed eyes, blazing with naked hatred, were a foul greenish-yellow.

"Man'ari!" Kuros spat in loathing. He snatched his mace angrily from the hands of the peacekeeper who quietly offered it to him. His voice rose in the next moment, shouting out brazenly, "I should have expected such a craven attack from the likes of you, traitor!"

High-pitched mocking laugher echoed back at him, the man'ari's voice resonating as she replied, "Insignificant gnat, your words mean as little to me as your pathetic life. Did you believe that Prince Kael'thas would allow the Exodar to be stolen from him so easily?"

A slow predatory smile exposed the man'ari's sharp fangs that could easily rend flesh to drink the warm blood beneath.

"I was curious, wondering when - if ever at all - you cowards would finally discover the courage to attack my servants here. But as you can see," She continued, gesturing to her left and right casually at the heavily armed and well-armored blood elves standing impassively to either side of her, new arrivals to the recent battle. "You are far too late. The portals I've created have summoned to me reinforcements from Tempest Keep itself."

She pointed at Kuros with a long finger tipped by a wickedly sharp claw.

"After you and your weaklings are slain here, we will overrun the Exodar itself, kill your ridiculous prophet, and slaughter everyone within. Perhaps some will survive to become slaves. Perhaps I may even bestow upon a rare few the _pleasure_ of rejoining their man'ari kin, though I doubt they would survive the delightful and luscious torments I would inflict on their feeble bodies and fragile minds."

The man'ari eredar threw back her head, laughing long and maliciously.

Without saying a word, his face grim and dark, Cyros pushed Kuros aside firmly and strode forward without a word, leaving the surprised Triumvirate vindicator to stand silently in his wake, Kuros' mouth moving soundlessly, helplessly. Shoving his way easily past the draenei warriors who crowded his way, the harbinger advanced to the very forefront. Stepping beyond his kin, he stood alone, staring unblinkingly at the man'ari before him.

"Oh, and what's this?" The eredar purred in delight as she slid forward two steps on shiny black hooves, her head cocked to one side. A coy smile played about her lips. "Have you come to play with Sironas, little draenei?" She asked, licking her lips with a long forked tongue in a parody of lust, slowly and seductively. "Or perhaps you're here to make me withdraw what I've said? Well, speak up! Is it your wish that I drop to my knees and beg for Velen's forgiveness, paladin?"

"_No,_" Cyros replied; his voice was harsh and grating as he spat forth the word like a curse. "No, there can be no forgiveness for what you've done, man'ari."

Sironas threw back her head once more, laughing scornfully.

"What _I've_ done, draenei?" She said when she had recovered, leaning forward. "What _I_ have done is become stronger and more powerful than I ever was before. Lords Archimonde and Kil'jaeden infused us _all_ with a portion of the power granted to them by the Dark Titan. We are a force not to be trifled with - leaders and sorcerers of the Legion of Fire, bringing the flame of destruction incarnate to all pitiful sparks of life. We shall pave the way for our lord on a long road of ash and corpses to remake the universe as he sees fit or destroy it as he wishes."

"You are nothing more than _abominations_," Cyros declared with a snarl, hefting his warhammer in both gauntleted hands. "And the Holy Light will scour your foulness from this universe forever."

"How wrong you are, draenei," Sironas snorted contemptuously. "You name me an abomination and yet only just beneath your self-righteous judgements, we are more alike than you think."

The man'ari's words caught Cyros by surprise and he momentarily faltered, taking a hesitant step back even as she stepped forward more decisively, her eyes burning into his. The paladin found he couldn't avert his gaze and felt as if he was ensnared, a mouse squeaking defiance at a lion. Sironas' eyes seemed to swallow him whole, drowning him in their infinite depths even as her voice echoed sinisterly in his ears.

"I sense it, you know: the rage, the hate... You may try to hide it, paladin, or deny its very existence, but all the darkness that lurks within your soul is laid bare to me. You may wield the Holy Light for now, but I can see you're only one step away from the abyss that beckons to you. And think just how easy it would be to take that final stride, to accept your place in this universe and carve your name across the stars themselves in blood and fire..."

Cyros slowly shook his head in denial, his mouth moving wordlessly, his face twisting with horror and shock. The harbinger had known for years what his people thought of him; what they whispered about him when they thought he wasn't within earshot. And he had accepted what he had become, or so he thought...

Vengeance was-

No, not vengeance, for a true paladin did not seek out such. No, he had embraced..._retribution_, uncompromising justice for his people to ensure their survival. He only did what he knew _had_ to be done. But if that were so, why did the rage boil his blood, the hate burn like molten lava through his veins...

But worst of all, to hear all of this spoken so openly by this...this _monster_ standing before him...

_No..._

"No," Cyros whispered aloud, his teeth clenching tightly, before his voice rose suddenly to a near desperate shout.

"_No, I'm __**nothing**__ like you!_"

And with that, he charged Sironas.

He heard Kuros shout out his name, but he didn't care. He didn't care how many blood elves stood alongside their demonic mistress, didn't care if his fellow draenei moved to aid him or not. All he could focus on were the man'ari's burning eyes, her mocking laughter flaying him like a whip even as he rushed her, warhammer raised high. The harbinger leapt at her even as she strode confidently forward to meet him. His legs powered him in a tremendous vault upwards, his warhammer swinging out in a mighty arc downwards, aimed straight at her head.

Smiling cruelly, Sironas languidly raised her right hand at the last second, seizing the purple crystal head in an iron grip, halting the weapon mere inches from her face. The shockwave of the mighty impact ripped down through her body, causing the ground to rumble deeply. The holy energies within the ancient warhammer flared and a tight wave of discomfort passed across the man'ari's face. Her hand blackened and blistered as the blessed weapon blazed against the raw evil contained within her. For an instant she gazed into Cyros' furious eyes and then giggled, before hurling the paladin, warhammer and all, against the hill face to her left with punishing force.

The armored paladin smashed back-first into the rock and soil with an echoing crunch, collapsing onto one knee with a wheezing grunt as the air was driven explosively from his lungs. Cyros struggled to raise his head as he supported himself on his warhammer, gasping for breath, his entire body trembling. He could only watch powerlessly as Sironas' black hooves strode into his field of vision a moment later as the man'ari came right up to him.

Sironas reached down and seized the harbinger by the throat with her left hand, her large fingers forcing his helmeted head back as she slammed him against the rock once more, pinning him in place. Reaching down with her other hand, she ripped his helmet off, leather straps tearing and metal buckles snapping, and flung it aside. Squeezing his windpipe tightly until she felt Cyros writhing violently in her grasp, Sironas leaned down, her cruel gaze boring once more into his own luminous blue-white orbs.

"Look at you, paladin," The man'ari sneered, her eyes narrowing. "Weak, pathetic, useless... And yet," She continued, her voice lowering to a harsh whisper. "Think of what you _could_ be. See how easily I've overpowered you. But we both know what lies within you, paladin. Unleash your rage, free the darkness within, and fight me at your full strength."

The harbinger dropped his warhammer to claw futilely at her arm with both hands and slam weak blows against her armored torso, but still he couldn't free himself. Cyros' vision began rimming red, darkening as he gasped raggedly for air. He dimly heard the grinding of his spine as the bones began to slowly crack, daggers of pain convulsing his body as they stabbed through him.

"Where's the Holy Light to save you now?" Sironas hissed, leaning down even closer with her head cocked to one side as she glared at Cyros, angered by his stubborn refusal. "Perhaps it has abandoned you, paladin. You were too weak to wield its power and now it has left you utterly. You could've been so much more, but now you will simply die. Be thankful in this last minute your death was swifter than what I'll confer upon the rest of your misbegotten race."

Desperate, on the verge of blacking out, Cyros called out frantically for something - _anything_ - that might save him...

And something answered.

Sironas smiled grimly in triumph, lips peeling back slowly from her sharp fangs as she gazed down at the paladin in her iron grasp. She felt his struggles weakening, slowing, and finally ceasing, the draenei hanging limply in her hand, his right arm draped lifelessly over her outstretched left. Still, a frown twisted her face a moment later as she tried squeezing her hand even harder around his throat. Where was the satisfying wet crunch of his bones giving out under the pressure of her grip? She abruptly realized that not only were his bones not cracking within her furious grasp, she now felt the swell of muscles tensing, felt tendons ripple like steel cords beneath his flesh. Sironas snarled in frustrated anger as she raised her right hand high as if to slap him, the fingers spreading wide, the sharp black claws gleaming in the sunlight.

_Enough was enough! It was time to-!_

The man'ari barely managed to choke back a scream of agony as the paladin's right arm shifted back suddenly, his gauntleted hand enclosing her left wrist in a crushing grip. She could feel the bones of her wrist grinding together, her tendons and muscles being squeezed so tightly that her fingers were beginning to loosen, trembling open involuntarily under the strain. Sironas shouted hoarsely in rage as her right hand shot downward. Her claws tore easily through Cyros' thick breastplate as if it were mere paper, her large fingers leaving four long, broad trails of jaggedly torn metal and gushing blue blood.

Sironas snarled bestially in satisfaction at seeing the paladin's blood flow across her hand and stream down his armor. She would rip both of this insolent draenei's still beating hearts from his chest and devour them whole before his kin. Only then would they understand the fate that awaited them all. The man'ari was forced to cry out in surprise and fear in the next instant though as Cyros' left hand rose smoothly, clamping down with preternatural speed as he seized her forearm, immobilizing her slashing right hand as easily as he would restrain an unruly child. He then effortlessly yanked the claws from his chest with a violent jerk.

"_What-!_" The man'ari began to shriek in rage, frustration, and now pain, her body quivering from the sheer agony lancing out from both of her arms. Her cry was abruptly cut off, dying out into a sputtering gasp as the draenei slowly raised his head to look up at her.

Sironas' eyes widened in shock as she gazed into two blazing orbs of golden fire as bright as the sun.

"What's wrong, demon?" Cyros rasped as he began to rise slowly to his hooves, glaring furiously at the stunned man'ari even as blood continued to flow from his ruined chest. "This was what you wanted, wasn't it? For me to unleash the rage within?" He smiled and it was a savage expression, his lips skinning back to bare teeth like fangs as he growled at her, "Now _you_ will know the wrath of the Light!"

Jerking Sironas down towards him with renewed strength she could barely resist, Cyros rose to his full height in the same movement, smashing his bone-plated forehead into her face in a brutal headbutt. The man'ari reeled back, her shrieks of pain gurgling strangely through the green blood that streamed from her crushed nose and cut lips. Before she could recover, the harbinger calmly pulled Sironas' twitching hand from his neck, blue flesh now swollen with dark bruising. He then released her hand an instant later and smashed Sironas brutally in the throat with the same gauntleted fist.

The man'ari eredar's glowing eyes widened, fairly bulging from their sockets at the force of the blow as she grunted in anguish, her mouth moving silently. Sironas awkwardly shoved Cyros away, stumbling back in near desperation, her hands rising instinctively to clutch at her face and neck.

Cyros smiled coldly, watching in silent pitiless satisfaction as his enemy almost tripped in her haste to stagger away from him. He leaned down and retrieved his fallen warhammer before rising smoothly and unhurriedly, his every action suggesting he had all the time in the world for this duel. Sudden movement to his left alerted him to potential danger. The harbinger's narrowed golden eyes instantly flicked over to assess the threat, his body reacting almost mechanically, the warhammer rising to the ready in his gauntleted hands.

Vindicator Kuros stopped short at seeing Cyros appraise him coolly as if he were only another foe to be destroyed, strengths and weaknesses seemingly written across his features.

"Cyros, wait!" Kuros called out, speaking hurriedly as he raised both of his hands to show they were empty of weapons. His own tense gaze glanced back and forth between the still recovering Sironas and her blood elf soldiers, who had readied their myriad weapons, but still hadn't broken ranks to attack, awaiting their mistress' commands.

"Vindicator," Cyros rumbled in reply, his voice slow and hesitating as if confused, but then before Kuros could continue, he glared at the Triumvirate leader in sudden realization. "Kuros, stay where you are! This demon-whore is mine!"

"Draenei filth!" Sironas gurgled, raising her hands as green-white flames boiled about her long fingers. "You haven't won yet, bastard! I-"

"_Enough!_" The harbinger roared, cutting her off.

An armored fist rose only a second later, pointing, directing, and a blistering exorcism thundered from his lips. The man'ari screamed in agony as the bolt of holy energy lanced out from his gauntlet to burn into her chest, smashing her to the ground. He began striding towards her slowly, utterly confident in his victory.

Sironas struggled to rise, pushing herself up on trembling arms, her breathing deep and ragged.

"You-you think you've beaten me that easily?" She snarled, spitting out green blood with a harsh cough to clear her mouth.

"Not yet," Cyros replied levelly as he approached her, golden eyes unblinking. Smiling grimly, he raised his warhammer meaningfully. "But soon..."

At that, Sironas began to laugh long and hard, her tone confident and mocking both together. She was laughing despite the agony, her wet voice hacking and coughing as blood dripped obscenely from her lips and trickled down her chin.

"You fool!" She called out, still chuckling even as a grimace of pain momentarily distorted her visage. "You think me at your mercy, but I tell you now this _isn't_ over!"

The man'ari glanced over at the armored blood elves impassively watching and her voice rose to a commanding scream bordering on hysteria.

"_Kill him_, my servants! _Kill him now and bring me his head!_"

The _sin'dorei_ sprang forward at once - war-dogs loosed from their chains - to charge the draenei harbinger, shouting strange battle-cries in their own language as they raised their weapons.

Cyros stiffened in surprise, muscles tensing as he paused for an instant. His golden eyes flickered between the oncoming blood elves and Sironas, a vile triumphant smile twisting her face. He instantly realized what he had to do, as much as it enraged him.

"Do you believe treachery will save you from the Light's avenging wrath, Sironas?" He shouted harshly, his eyes boring into hers as his eyebrows furrowed in a furious glare. "You've done nothing else save delay your fate! Flee like a coward then, man'ari! We _will_ meet again!"

Cyros dodged aside as the first of the running blood elves sprinted forward to reach him, their ornate swords lashing out swiftly like steel lightning. He then sprang at them in a lunge, shoulder-blocking two of the _sin'dorei_ bodily aside into their comrades, their arms flailing helplessly. His warhammer swung out to smash against their bodies, crushing skulls beneath helmets and breaking bones under elaborate armor with dull crunches, each blow accompanied by shrill screams of agony from his adversaries.

And then Kuros was by his side, striking out hard and skillfully with his mace and heavy shield, momentarily driving the enemy back to await their comrades pounding up behind them. The Triumvirate vindicator paused to chant quietly, a simple prayer to the Holy Light, calling upon its power. Cyros felt the warmth of healing energies wash over his body, the deep aching of his muscles and the searing agony of his wounds fading as he was renewed.

Nodding his thanks silently to Kuros, Cyros grimly turned his gaze to take in the scores of blood elves rushing down upon them. Stepping forward resolutely, he raised his warhammer defiantly as Kuros spread his hooves wide in a defensive stance, bracing himself with mace and shield held at the ready.

Glancing to his left and right in momentary surprise, Cyros saw dozens of his fellow draenei also moving up to form a solid phalanx beside him and the vindicator. Their glowing eyes glared out over the edges of their raised shields at the charging blood elves, their gauntleted hands flexing about the hafts of their maces and flails. Despite everything they knew about the harbinger standing before them - the rumors and whispers about demonic influence and corruption - they couldn't deny that here was the one who had challenged and fought the man'ari eredar leader to a standstill, until she had betrayed the honorable single combat with treachery of the foulest sort. That disgraceful act would not go unanswered and they would likewise not see one of their own cut down by the deceitful cowards that now opposed him.

Bolstered by his comrades' determination, Cyros raised his deep voice to shout an age-old battle-cry mere seconds before the two sides clashed in deadly combat. The other draenei warriors combined their voices unhesitatingly to form a single thunderous roar in answer.

"_**For Argus!**_"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_It was a tiny thing. _

_A mistimed blow, a miniscule imperfection at best within the flowing sequence of strike upon strike. _

_The death knight towers above Cyros, glaring down at him with those baleful red eyes. The draenei awaits the final descent of his weapon, stunned and helpless. And yet, his foe hesitates. It was something Cyros hadn't noticed before. A slight hesitation, a split-second at most, his blazing eyes studying the paladin with...what? _

_What does the vindicator behold in those cruel glowing eyes? Rage and fury to be sure, but also... Regret? Doubt? Such a strange, unexpected mixture in one so steeped in evil... _

_And then, even as the unnatural fire bursts around him... _

_Hope?_

_It was such a tiny thing..._

_It was...such...a..._

Cyros groaned softly as he began to regain consciousness, the darkness of his nightmares gradually fading away.

The vindicator's glowing blue-white eyes flickered open slowly to be met by a bright and clear blue sky. The light of the day burned his vision and he closed his eyes a moment later, unable to withstand the slash of brilliance. His head felt as if it had been forcefully introduced to a blacksmith's hammer, several times in fact. His body didn't feel much better, deep aches spread throughout his knotted muscles as if he'd been fighting for days on end with no rest. He shifted his powerful arms, trying to push himself up into a sitting position, only to fall back against the hard ground with a sharp gasp as agony flared in his left side. Memories sprung to the fore, spurred on by the pain as it lanced through him.

The struggle against the death knight...

The terrible wound inflicted by his adversary's morningstar...

"Don't try to move, draenei."

It was a woman's voice, light and melodious, but still sharp with command and a trace of something else, an uncertainty...

"You're still gravely wounded and I am nowhere near a master in the healing arts."

It was then Cyros recognized her voice, though when he had first heard it, she had sounded faint and distant.

"I know you," He said, unable to raise his voice above a ragged whisper. "You...You were the one at Andorhal-" His body shuddered as his voice broke down into choking coughs, his throat feeling as dry as the Barrens on a scorching summer day. He felt a slim warm hand slide under the back of his head, gently raising him up. A water skin was pressed to his lips.

"Here," The woman said, her voice softening in Cyros' ears. "Drink."

The paladin hesitated. This _was_ the same woman at Andorhal, the one who had presumably saved him moments before his demise. And yet he didn't know who she was, what her motivations were..._nothing_...

She laughed lightly above him, as if the wary thoughts on his mind were written clearly across his features, her silver glissade both lovely and mocking to Cyros' ears.

"Vindicator, if I had truly wanted to kill you, I could've done so long before now. Or I could have just left you to die at the gates of that city of the damned. Poison should be the least of your concerns at the moment. _This_," She pulled the water skin away for just a moment to give it a slight shake, the liquid sloshing about within, "is only water. Now drink."

The draenei needed no further encouragement and he gulped greedily at the fresh water for a long moment, before the leather skin was pulled away.

"My thanks to you," Cyros whispered. "Now if you would, please help me up."

There was a brief pause followed by a shuffle of movement before he felt the slim hands and slender arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling at him as he pushed back against the ground with his own large hands.

Biting back a wheezing grunt of exertion as muscles almost cramped from the effort, the vindicator slowly rose into a sitting position. He tried to straighten up, but hissed as the movement stretched the wound in his left side, agony lancing through his body. He settled for a half-hunched over posture instead. When at last he managed to steady his breathing and feel the pain begin to ebb, Cyros glanced over at his rescuer's kneeling form, less than a stride away, before blinking his eyes to clear his still hazy vision. And as reality slowly swam back into focus, it was then he abruptly realized why there had been that _hesitation_ earlier in her voice.

Vindicator or not, Cyros found that for a long moment he could only stare at her in unblinking shock.

The woman was a blood elf.

Her face was striking, ageless and beautiful, and her skin was both light and fair. She had the pointed ears and defined cheek bones that were two of the physical trademarks of her race. So too was her flaxen hair which was as lustrous as it was thick. Swept away from her face by way of a delicate silver tiara around her brow, the remaining golden bulk was tied together in a ponytail before cascading freely down until it reached the middle of her back. Her almond-shaped eyes, however, were rather disconcerting when seen so close, glowing softly with the emerald-green radiance of fel-taint, despite the fact the blood elves' Sunwell had been newly restored only mere months earlier after the furious battle to banish the Demon Lord Kil'jaeden from Azeroth.

She was clad in a lovely gown of bright red cloth. Though it was trimmed shorter and fitted more snugly, almost alluringly, against her body than a normal dress to allow easier movement, the gown was nevertheless an elegant, finely tailored garment. The rich cloth appeared as smooth as silk and was also trimmed in black, decorated with various intricate designs and patterns in brilliant gold thread.

Though slender in body and seemingly vulnerable, the vindicator could sense a lurking strength within her. And he was also uncomfortably aware of the rather low cut of her gown as she leaned towards him. The blood elf's exotic beauty, seen in such exquisite detail so close, sent an involuntary shiver rippling down Cyros' spine.

The thin staff of smooth ebony that lay by her right side was not just for decoration; he had no doubt that the bright amber gem gripped in talons of gold attached to one end was used in focusing her arcane powers.

Though filled with mounting unease at this situation and in her presence, the paladin nevertheless lowered his head slowly in a polite nod even as he forced himself to remain calm and refrain from glancing around vigilantly for any hidden threats. Cyros also endeavored to keep his hands in plain sight and well clear of his massive two-handed warhammer that lay on the ground between them.

"I must thank you for my life, my lady," Cyros said evenly as he fell back on simple formality and polite courtesy, forcing himself to treat her as he would any unknown dignitary as he lifted his gaze once again to meet her own. "You saved me outside the gates of Andorhal and that selfless act is something I will not forget."

A golden eyebrow arched delicately upward in surprise, even as her small, but full-lipped mouth smirked in amusement.

"Never fear, my good vindicator, I won't let you forget it either." She laughed softly again, before turning inquisitive, mirrored in the way she cocked her head quizzically to one side. "But what were you doing at Andorhal? And what madness possessed you to attack that stronghold of the Scourge alone?"

Cyros sighed as he glanced down, unable to meet her questioning stare, his face twisting momentarily into a dark frown. And yet, it was only when he had looked away that he became uncomfortably aware of his state of undress. Once unnoticed, his eyes now quickly took inventory of what had been done to him. He'd been stripped to the waist, though thankfully not beyond. The heavy armor plates of adamantite had been unstrapped and removed to better expose the terrible wound in his left side. A bandage of wool, soaked through with black pestilence, was wrapped around his torso, binding both wound and broken ribs. Had his face not already been flushed with shame at the memories of his abject failure, he would've done so again.

Stretching carefully, testing the muscles in his arms, chest, and shoulders, Cyros gritted his teeth, wincing as pain flared from his side once more. The vindicator resolved to tell her at least most of the tale - withholding information that might be considered valuable or strategic of course - for such simple story-telling might serve to ease the almost palpable tension he clearly felt between them. And it perhaps might also gain him trust enough to at least depart her company unharmed, for he understood with grim realization that in his wounded state, she clearly had the advantage if it came to a confrontation.

"I had heard disturbing rumors while training within Ironforge," The draenei began hesitantly, avoiding her still penetrating gaze by examining his bandage more closely, his fingers moving up to fiddle with it.

"Apparently, the dwarves of Aerie Peak had sent word to their mountain cousins that they had lost contact with Quel'Danil Lodge in the Hinterlands. There was news of increasingly large bands of undead wandering south through the mountains to attack Wildhammer holdings. It was feared this incursion had perhaps overrun the high elf outpost. However, all scouts the Wildhammers sent to Quel'Danil Lodge never returned."

Cyros began unwrapping the bandage to take a closer look at his injury.

"In response to this report, King Bronzebeard dispatched a handpicked group of paladins and priests to assist the Wildhammers against their undead foe. I spoke to the king and volunteered my service as well. Relations between my people and the Alliance are...still broadening at the moment..."

Here the paladin paused, his thoughts momentarily focusing on the state of unofficial war that currently existed between the draenei and the blood elves, each race certain the other was focused on destroying them. Despite the fact Cyros had learned just a year earlier from the dwarves of Ironforge that the blood elves were actually divided at the moment into _two_ separate factions - one still fanatically loyal to their Prince Sunstrider - he still remained tense and alert, for there was no knowing where this particular mage's allegiance lay.

The vindicator shook his head, bringing himself back on track as the elf woman shifted slightly, settling into a more comfortable position while still giving him her full attention.

"And so, in an effort to strengthen those bonds, I decided to accompany the dwarves on their mission. When we finally arrived at Aerie Peak, the group dispersed to reinforce the Wildhammers' defenses. Remembering that reports had indicated the roving Scourge to be attacking into the Hinterlands from the northern mountains, I informed High Thane Falstad I would depart immediately for Andorhal to- By the Light!"

This last was spat out in a harsh hiss of shock and disgust as Cyros beheld the long jagged tears under the protective covering of the bandage.

The wounds seemed like four miniature canyons gouged into his side, each weeping a foul gruel of blood and black corruption. He briefly glimpsed the white of exposed bone. Tendrils of darkness spread outward from the wounds, twisting through otherwise untouched blue flesh. Grimacing, the paladin reached down to carefully explore the gashes, but found his hand abruptly restrained as the blood elf leaned across to grab his wrist.

"You shouldn't do that," She said firmly, shaking her head. "I've never seen such infection before. The blessing you cast at Andorhal-"

"A gift from the Naaru, to all draenei," Cyros corrected absentmindedly, his eyes still focused on the foul injuries.

"Your _gift_," She continued with a slight sigh, obviously miffed at being interrupted, "managed to mend your broken bones and heal your minor injuries, but even for the past two days, I have seen no improvement-"

"Wait!" Cyros said sharply, glancing up at her, his defined aquiline features twisting into a frown. All focus on his wounds was momentarily banished from his head. His deep voice was so harsh and commanding that the blood elf flinched away instinctively, her eyes widening in alarm. "_How_ long did you say we've been here?"

Swiftly regaining her composure, she arched another eyebrow, as if to question the vindicator's sanity.

"Two days," She repeated flatly, her voice suggesting mild annoyance at having to do so.

"There was little other choice in the matter," The blood elf continued, shrugging with a quiet snort of irritation. "My portal spell was misaligned due to the circumstances and the haste in which I cast it. And despite my magical abilities," Her lips formed once more into an impish smile, "_you_, sir vindicator, are far too heavy for me to carry alone. As far as I can tell, we're somewhere in the mountains north of Aerie Peak and Quel'Danil Lodge."

_Two days..._ The paladin wondered in disbelief, his eyes lowering to the ground.

_What could have happened to the elves and dwarves in that time?_

And yet, this question was quickly dissolved, lost and eclipsed as a far different thought forced itself to the forefront.This blood elf mage had not only saved him from death, but had also attended him for two days and nights apparently.

_What did __**that**__ mean exactly?_

"My thanks yet again, my lady," Cyros said deferentially. "I indeed owe you my life, a debt that cannot be repaid."

"Well," She replied, leaning back with the mischievous smirk that was quickly becoming familiar, "you can certainly try."

When her companion didn't reply, she pushed on, "You can begin by helping me find our way to some safer location - one that will hopefully have a skilled healer who can attend to _you_."

She gestured pointedly at his wounds, before changing the subject.

"I do have a name though, sir _vindicator_," She said, putting clear emphasis on his title, "as I'm sure you do. Mine is Ashira, and yours?"

The blood elf extended her slim right hand in greeting and waited patiently for him to respond even as the seconds wore on.

And yet, for the draenei paladin, those seconds seemed more akin to years - perhaps even decades - as Cyros stared unblinkingly at her offered hand as if enthralled.

It was not every day he introduced himself politely to a member of a race his own people had branded as mortal enemies over two years ago, their internal division into two separate factions be damned. His muscular tail, armored with natural plates of bone, curled and uncurled in agitation, akin to a hedgehog that couldn't decide if it was safe or not.

Indeed, he was now as equally torn.

Most of Cyros' previous encounters with these _sin'dorei_, as they called themselves, had been horrifically bloody and violent affairs, from fighting savagely against the blood elf garrison of the Exodar alongside the revered Prophet Velen to helping repulse the invasion of Bloodmyst Isle by the Sunhawks, a private army of Prince Kael'thas himself that had been dispatched with orders to finish off the draenei survivors of the Exodar's crash landing onto Azuremyst Isle. The vindicator had even defeated the leader of the Sunhawks - a powerful and cruel man'ari eredar named Sironas - in personal combat. It had been a vicious duel that had left more than its fair share of scars, both during the clash and amongst the aftermath. In all battles against the arrogant and disdainful blood elves, the vindicator had smashed them down without hesitation and without mercy, crushing what was left of their broken bodies beneath his diamond-hard hooves.

The muscles across his broad torso tensed in agitation, his arms fairly trembling. His jaw clenched tight, teeth grounding together almost audibly. For what was only an instant, but seemed like time beyond understanding to the vindicator, Cyros' mind flooded with memories from years past, his body unmoving, almost paralyzed by the sensation.

- - - - -

_**Two years earlier...**_

"As for the rest, I'm sure you've been told what happened," Cyros finished steadily. His eyes flicked over to glance at Vindicator Kuros.

The senior paladin's face was still grim, but for an instant his stern gaze seemed to soften and the harbinger could've sworn that he saw Kuros nod slightly at him. The meaning, though subtle, was nevertheless clear. While the vindicator still regarded Cyros with the distrust and suspicion that had grown steadily over the years, he at least also acknowledged the harbinger remained an equal for now - a loyal and devoted paladin sworn to serve the Holy Light and protect their people.

"Yes, I have," Velen replied musingly, his eyes closing. "And by many that were there, Cyros. They said you crushed the blood elves without mercy, that you smote them with the raw power of the Holy Light manipulated into terribly destructive energies." His eyes opened once more and his voice quieted, murmuring solemnly, "And they also said you almost didn't spare the wounded blood elves and nearly had to be forcibly restrained from executing them where they lay."

Cyros stiffened and his cheeks flushed lighter with shame. He could clearly hear the echo of disappointment and alarm despite Velen's carefully controlled voice. He couldn't deny the righteous fury that had descended upon him during the battle, the overwhelming urge to slay all of his enemies, no matter how dangerous or...powerless.

"They speak the truth, Prophet Velen," The harbinger answered steadfastly, his gaze unfaltering. "I admit freely that I nearly spat on my honor that day. It was only by the grace and nobility of my fellow paladins that I still retain what little I now have left."

Velen seemed to consider this quietly for a long moment, before at last turning to look at the Triumvirate.

"Leave us for a time," He said to them firmly, his tone allowing no protest to be voiced. "I will send for you when we are ready. But for now I wish to speak to Cyros alone."

Snapping to attention in unison and saluting with a precision not easily matched, the three vindicators strode past Velen and Cyros, heading down the crystal stairs. Though Kuros swept by with his gaze remaining focused straight ahead, his eyes not straying to so much as glance at Cyros, the harbinger saw the frigid stares from both Aesom and Boros. Their glaring eyes and tense bodies communicated a clear, if unspoken threat, but their pride and honor kept their mouths silent. Soon all three vindicators were gone, vanishing through the north entryway leading into the Crystal Hall.

Velen turned back to Cyros and simply stared at him for a long moment, before sighing quietly and stepping in closer, placing a hand on the harbinger's left shoulder pauldron.

"Let us speak plainly now, Cyros, just you and I," He said with a sad smile. "I do not need the gift of foresight or the blessing of the Holy Light to know the hearts and minds of all of my brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. While you have never chosen to speak of it openly, you and I both know you haven't been the same since Kalennia died."

Cyros stiffened, his face immediately darkening into a frown of barely controlled anger and sorrow. His tail curled in tightly against his body, quivering. Discipline warred with passion on his visage for an instant, but Velen raised a hand to quiet any protests or other harsh words.

"Hear me, Cyros, please, for I know how deeply her loss affected you. Though it has been years now, you've been unable to let go. Your heart and soul dwell in hatred and self-loathing; your Light-blessed aura, once so strong and proud, devoted to the protection of your people, now lashes out at your foes instead, smashing against them with the same raging fury you've let consume you. And though you believe you destroy your enemies in the name of adamant justice, Cyros, vengeance is a far cry from retribution. You know this. And while perhaps some of us still know you, harbinger, for who you truly are deep within, your hate and anger have driven almost all of the others from you. And your utter loneliness, no matter if you choose to deny it or not, merely embitters you even further.

"You are locked in a terrible cycle of rage and hate that merely self-perpetuates, sinking you ever deeper with the passage of time. And while I realize you may perhaps never forgive me for speaking so openly of such things, I know what that man'ari Sironas told you. But if you truly _believe_ what that corrupted demoness said to you, Cyros, if you don't reject her words utterly with your very heart and soul, _knowing_ them to be false, and instead merely accept them as truth, then..."

Cyros' head bowed slowly as Velen's voice trailed off into silence, as if his neck muscles could no longer support it. His gauntleted hands clenched into tight fists, arms fairly trembling beneath his battle-plate. His dark eyebrows furrowed as he gritted his teeth.

"I-I know what I've become, Velen," He began, voice low and hesitant.

The harbinger glanced up and Velen saw the unshed tears glimmering in the depths of his burning eyes as Cyros paused to take in a deep breath, exhaling slowly in a calming, cleansing sigh before continuing.

"Make no mistake about that: I know all too well what I am and I know what I've done. But...But the path I once strode so long ago is lost to me. I once believed - no, I _knew_ - where my journey lay, but after Kalennia was..._butchered_," The harbinger spat the word out between gritted teeth. "Along with the rest of my village, vengeance, hatred, and my weapon have been my closest companions and they're all I have left now. I-I cannot let go so easily, Velen... I've tried so many times now, but I can't exorcise their faces from my sight. They haunt my dreams every night, their faces glaring, accusing... I can't close my eyes without the taste of blood and ashes on my tongue, and the smell of burning flesh and acrid smoke filling my nostrils. I can still hear their screams... And the Light... Even the Holy Light itself didn't heed my call to save her or any of them. Please tell me, Velen,"

And here Cyros' voice caught Velen by surprise, pleading and desperate, filling the prophet with incredible sorrow.

"Tell me how I can let this go. All I've known since that day is what now stands before you: an existence dedicated to bloodshed and vengeance."

"Cyros," Velen said heavily even as he squeezed the harbinger's shoulder pauldron reassuringly, though he knew Cyros couldn't feel it. "I must confess to you that as long as I've lived and as wise as you and the others believe me to be, I'm afraid I don't have the answer for you now."

Velen watched the harbinger's face fall, luminous eyes squeezing shut, and the prophet felt the stab of pain and despair that flashed through Cyros as if it were his own.

"But never forget there's _always_ hope. _Faith_, Cyros, faith is the strongest weapon you have now and the sturdiest shield. Trust in the Holy Light and it will never fail you."

"The Holy Light?" Cyros whispered, laughing softly, bitterly. "Did the Light allow me to save my village? Did it allow me to heal their broken and mutilated bodies? Did it allow me to raise my beloved from darkness eternal?"

"We are but mortal, Cyros," Velen said steadfastly. "And though we may not understand it at the time, we must trust that everything that occurs happens for a greater purpose, a more divine reason. I don't believe what you seek lies within the crystal halls of the Exodar, Cyros. Heed my words now, for I have need of you and I believe that in helping me, you will find what you lost."

Cyros stepped back without another word, causing Velen's hand to slip from his shoulder. Stiffening, the paladin slammed his fists together in salute with a dull clunk of metal, his unblinking eyes never leaving Velen's. When he spoke, his voice was cool and impassive, but now distant and hollow.

"What do you require of me, Prophet Velen?"

Sighing inwardly in regret, Velen replied, "This is a new world, harbinger, full of strange creatures of both good and evil. As you know, we've had some dealings with a race that call themselves 'night elves.' They're apparently from a great island to the north, but have also raised many settlements across the continent to the east, which they call 'Kalimdor.' Some of their traders are even now establishing temporary shops in the Traders' Tier."

Velen's eyebrows furrowed in a contemplative frown as he continued, "These night elves seem decent and honorable beings, but then so were the-" The prophet-leader abruptly stopped, realizing almost at the last instant where his words were leading.

There was a telltale flicker in Cyros' eyes, but his face otherwise betrayed nothing, the harbinger merely nodding attentively as required to show Velen still had his utmost attention.

"Nevertheless," Velen said slowly. "I and the Triumvirate agree that it may be possible to treat formally with these night elves and their allies. Apparently their people are members of a Grand Alliance with three other races: humans, dwarves, and gnomes."

All of these names sounded as strange and alien to Cyros' ears as **'**_sin'dorei_.'

"From the demonstrations by their religious caste, all of these creatures follow and believe in the Holy Light as we do. And since they initially mistook us for our accursed man'ari brethren, they're clearly also no friends of the Burning Legion. Therefore, they may prove to be formidable allies to us in our battle against the Legion, _if_ this 'Grand Alliance' is as honorable and noble as described by their silver-tongued envoys. To this end, I'm sending Emissary Taluun east across the wide ocean these night elves told us of to make for the great city of the humans called Stormwind. I've also been informed by the night elves the journey is both long and dangerous. I'm therefore sending you, Cyros, to lead the escort party responsible for ensuring Taluun's safety. This is a task of the utmost importance and I know you won't fail me in this duty."

"Not as long as my body draws breath," Cyros intoned somberly in reply, before tipping his head slightly in acknowledgement of his orders and turning to depart down the stairs.

"Cyros," Velen said softly and the harbinger glanced back at the prophet-leader, his face still a hard frozen mask. "You must understand this is _not_ what you believe it to be.

"Though you are now a vindicator under the Emissary's command, for this is - and _must_ be - a diplomatic charge, I'm not merely exiling you from the Exodar in disgrace, demoting you and casting you out from our people. _You_, Cyros, are as important to me as any of our fellow draenei and I- no, _we_ will _never_ simply abandon you to your fate. But you and I both know that if you simply continue to endure the way you are now, in the end you will destroy yourself and harm those innocents you swore to protect. This is a new world, vindicator, and though it will undoubtedly be an arduous and perilous journey, I know you will find what you seek. A new beginning awaits you, Cyros, but only if you believe it to be so and embrace the opportunity when it arises with courage _and_ faith."

Cyros hesitated for a long moment, his eyes dropping to stare emptily at the floor, before rising once more to meet Velen's steady gaze.

"Your will be done, Velen," The harbinger said quietly, but this time his nod of affirmation was more confident, more assured.

Without another word, he turned and strode down the stairs, heading across the stone and crystal floor towards the entryway leading into the Traders' Tier.

- - - - -

With an almost imperceptible shudder, Cyros forced himself to focus as he shook off the memories that had so engulfed him. He was therefore left alone once again in the hard, inescapable present with Ashira's proffered hand still waiting patiently in his vision.

By all rights, he should be using his hands to snap Ashira's neck like a twig! But the fact remained that Cyros, despite everything his own people whispered about him, was no cold-blooded murderer. And in addition, the fact also remained that, regardless of anything else, _this_ particular blood elf had saved his life, no matter what hidden intentions she might be harboring.

The vindicator reached out as well at long last with visible reluctance, engulfing her hand in his blue boulder-like fist.

"Cyros."

"A pleasure to meet you," Ashira replied graciously, her mouth curling upwards into a more full and complete smile.

They shook and the paladin was surprised at the firmness of her grip.

"Healing is not beyond my skills," Cyros said, hastily changing the subject as he glanced down at the wounds. He grimaced as the pain ate its way back into his thoughts. "But for this, I believe you're right, Ashira. Still, let me try..." His voice faded into silence as his eyes closed, concentrating.

For a moment, nothing happened, but then the four gashes flared brightly with a golden light. When it had dwindled away though, the wounds looked very much the same. Perspiration beaded out on Cyros' forehead, just beneath his twin angular plates of bone. He wiped the droplets away with a forearm, eyes narrowing.

"I'll admit," The paladin began slowly with a strange frown, as if his face had been caught halfway between anger and wonder. "I admit I'm more adept at using the Holy Light as a weapon against my enemies, but I've never encountered such infection as this. Even as I tried to cleanse it, it seemed to..._resist_ me."

"The corruption is also clearly spreading," Ashira commented frankly, gesturing to the black tendrils worming their way up towards his broad chest and down towards his thick legs. "I already tried cutting away the infected flesh, but the rot always returned. We must find a healer to purify you before it reaches your hearts. Are you fit for travel?"

"I don't really have much of a choice in the matter, now do I?" Cyros replied with a bitter laugh. "Lead on, Ashira; I will endeavor to stagger and stumble in your wake."

"I would transport us from here," Ashira said apologetically. "However, the battle didn't end after you fell into unconsciousness." A tight grimace passed over her lovely face as the blood elf visibly recalled the recent past that was filled with clearly unpleasant memories. "The portal spell I cast was my last act to save us both. Even after three days, I...I'm not yet fully recovered."

And it was only then the vindicator discerned the exhaustion on her face, the bone-numbing weariness hidden by a carefully constructed façade of energy and liveliness. He suspected such a pretense was mostly out of self-defense. After all, Ashira had no idea what kind of draenei would awaken after two days. She needed to present an air of confidence and assurance, just in case he turned out far worse than she had anticipated.

In a way, Cyros was touched by her admission of weakness. That implied a trust she had placed in him, whether consciously or not. But then the vindicator hardened his hearts, his mouth forming a thin line as he clenched his teeth together in focus. She was still a blood elf, he reminded himself. He couldn't allow himself to lose sight of that singular truth and though Ashira had apparently saved his life, he had to nevertheless endeavor to keep his guard up as much as possible.

Ashira rose smoothly to her feet and the paladin found that, despite his misgivings, he still couldn't help but openly admire her lithe and graceful movements. She leaned one hand down to him, using the other to grasp a thick limb of a nearby tree, bracing herself sturdily. The draenei looked up at her, keeping his face impassive and stern even as he slowly and deliberately raised a thick black eyebrow in mockery of her earlier actions.

The blood elf laughed sweetly in genuine amusement.

"_You_, sir vindicator, must weigh at least three times my own bodyweight. I don't plan on breaking my back at this point in my life trying to heave your bulk off the ground."

Cyros smiled slightly, clasping her extended wrist, her own slender fingers wrapping around his as best she could manage.

"Point taken, Ashira," He said with a pained grunt as he rose to his hooves, careful not to pull too hard upon her.

Sighing, he stretched as best he could, shaking out the kinks and cramps in his still armored legs. The paladin turned to the blood elf as she began unrolling a long length of wool bandaging. At his full impressive height, Cyros stood at least a head and a half taller than the mage, looming over her. The angle of his view, however, presented him with a perfect look down at her cleavage. Ashira was much more full-breasted than he had initially thought.

Blushing hotly, he immediately glanced away, his interest now firmly set on a nearby pine tree. He remained staring at the tree even as she applied a healing poultice and then rebound his wounds, wrapping the bandage in several layers around his torso. Almost immediately the clean white cloth began to darken on his left side as the gashes continued to ooze. Cutting the cloth neatly, she tied the new bandage firmly in place and then repacked her medical supplies in a durable leather travel pack complete with dull brass buckles to secure its several compartments.

"Cyros?" She asked, her voice raised in a tone of curiosity. "Is there anything wrong?"

Startled, he glanced down at Ashira to see her offering up to him his torn breastplate with attached back and shoulder plates. Her arms and shoulders were trembling with the strain of holding up the heavy adamantite, but none of that crept into her voice. Even as he accepted his armor with a nod of thanks, the paladin kept his eyes locked on her bright green orbs, embarrassed at what reaction he might get should his gaze wander again.

The vindicator slipped his arms through the appropriate openings, pulling the thick cuirass down into place, before buckling the sides up and securing the torso armor to his waist. He jerked on the shoulder pauldrons, making sure they were still attached firmly, before sliding his arms down into the elbow protectors. Next to go on were his thick gauntlets, which extended all the way up his forearms to his elbows, leaving hardly a gap for an enemy to exploit. He extended and curled his fingers, testing the gauntlets' flexibility. Leaning down gingerly, he yanked on his leg armor, making sure those plates were still in place as well.

Cyros at last straightened, biting back another pained grunt, to find Ashira regarding him with plain amusement.

"Are you quite finished, sir paladin?" She asked in a courtly manner, smiling as she lifted up his massive warhammer.

"My lady," Cyros replied, smiling back as he grasped the warhammer in his right hand. He swung it up easily onto his shoulder, the weapon landing with a heavy clunk. "The ritual is complete. Let us be off."

As the two of them strode off further into the thick woods, moving downhill, a startling thought suddenly struck the paladin.

_I've yet to ask her what __**she**__ was doing at Andorhal..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Almost three days' travel from where the blood elf and draenei began their journey down through the mountains, a monster strode.

No natural beast of the wild, this hideous creature left a visible trail of sickly green corruption and toxins in its wake, the unholy miasma poisoning the ground as well as all plant and animal life within six strides of its enormous bulk. Crude leather stitching and black sorcery of the foulest sort bound its terrible hulking form together.

The death knight watched the giant abomination emerge from the forest with no small sense of disgust, his glowing eyes narrowed in aversion.

A horrific amalgamation of no less than two dozen bodies, all in various states of putrid decay, the _thing_ was an affront to all existence. An obscene mix of still bloody entrails hung from its distended stomach, trailing against the ground, while all across its body malformed limbs and legs twitched in a mockery of life. In each of its enormous hands, the abomination gripped a massive butcher's cleaver, the heavy chopping blades pitted with rust and stained with dark fluids long since caked on.

At the dark knight's side, a hunched over figure stirred, raising a wizened plague-ravaged hand to point at the lumbering nightmare.

"You see, you see," The figure rasped, its voice as dry and whispering as a flock of leaves stirred by the wind in the fall. "Behold your mighty servant. Yes, yes, it will serve you well. Soon their walls will crumble and fall before its-"

The death knight turned sharply, delivering a swift backhand blow to the figure's head, stretching it out against the cold ground.

"Fool!" He snarled, towering over the writhing form, red eyes flaring brighter in rage. "I told you yesterday we couldn't delay our march any longer to construct siege engines, yet still you insisted I wait, promising a great weapon. And _this_ is all you offer me? This-" And here his voice dropped to a low, threatening hiss. "This _abomination_?"

The figure adjusted its soiled black robe, using its ill-formed staff to drag itself painfully to its feet.

"Who-Who are you to abuse me so?" The hunchback grated out in resentment, raising its staff in one withered hand, eerie purple energies coiling around it like an ethereal snake. "I have served the master long and well, ever since the beginning. How dare you-"

The black armored knight barked out harsh contemptuous laughter as his right hand shot out to seize the necromancer by the front of his filthy robe. He hauled the man - if he could be truly called such - up easily so that the tips of his sandaled feet barely brushed against the ground. Still chuckling, the death knight yanked back the hood of his ragged purple cloak with the other hand.

He glared down into the horrified cultist's filmy bloodshot eyes.

"Well, pathetic worm, who am I?"

The necromancer could only manage a choking sob as he was dropped down a moment later. His thin quivering legs gave out beneath him to send him sprawling onto his knees.

The knight pulled the hood back into place, his red eyes blazing within the shadowy depths.

"Come!" He snapped at the cultist and abomination alike. "We will send your..._creation_ against the elves, along with the rest of my army. In two days' time, we will attack them at dawn. They won't be expecting an assault during the daylight. This monstrosity of yours had better not fail me, for _your_ sake, wizard."

- - - - -

Over the next two days, Ashira and Cyros had journeyed down south-west through the wide mountain range that separated the Hinterlands from the diseased and pestilent remnants of the Kingdom of Lordaeron to the north. It had taken them almost several hours at first to determine where they were and which direction they should head, for neither the draenei nor the blood elf was a true adventurer. They both possessed only the most essential knowledge when it came to crucial survival skills, such as hunting, navigation, and tracking.

Finally, after some debate on their next course of action, they had climbed to the highest peak they could safely ascend to and after risking the use of Ashira's nearly exhausted strength for a scrying spell they had beheld the sinister mist-enshrouded Western Plaguelands to the far north. Thus they had set out down through the mountains in the opposite direction, heading hopefully towards Wildhammer Keep or at least Quel'Danil Lodge.

If their course was wrong, however, and they managed to stumble into lands claimed by one of the three troll tribes inhabiting the Hinterlands...

Well, they'd cross that bridge if they came to it.

- - - - -

Cyros cursed harshly in annoyance as he tripped over yet another snaking tree root for what he swore had to be at least the thousandth time in their travel through the mountains, though he and Ashira had only been walking for no more than two hours at most.

Stumbling, almost falling, the draenei paladin managed to catch himself on a nearby boulder at the last moment. Like all sudden movements he made though, the near fall left his side burning in agony. Chest shuddering with pain, his breath came short and ragged as he wiped the glistening sweat from his brow. Normally this steady walking pace would have been nothing for the fully armored vindicator, even in the bright light of the midday sun, but the wounds seemed to be leeching what was left of his already diminished strength.

Ashira was at his side in an instant, clutching at one of his arms instinctively to support him as her emerald-green eyes examined him carefully from hooves to head, her expression grim.

"You aren't doing well at all, are you?" She asked, concern clouding her voice though she tried to remain impartial. Emphasizing the pain would only make it worse for the vindicator.

Cyros could only shake his head, his armored chest heaving as he sucked air into his burning lungs.

"Here, drink," She continued, offering him a freshly filled water skin.

The paladin accepted it gratefully, gulping thirstily at the life-sustaining liquid. Though seemingly drained of any major power, the blood elf mage could still conjure forth crystal clear water and bland but still wholesome food when needed. It was a handy ability the vindicator found himself distinctly envying more and more as their journey continued.

Leaning back against the boulder, seeking just a moment's reprieve, Cyros set down his warhammer with a soft groan of relief. No longer easily swung in even one hand if necessary, the weapon had become such a terrible burden that the paladin could hardly lift it. He dearly wished he could leave his plate armor and weapon safely behind, but doing such would leave a dark blight on what remained of his honor, and who knew what kinds of brigands and robbers dwelled in these mountains?

Cyros closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him and drank down more water.

"So," He began as he wiped his lips. "Tell me, Ashira: what were you doing so close to Andorhal?"

For a long moment, there was no answer and he glanced up to see her seemingly frozen in place, staring down the mountain with unblinking eyes. With a barely perceptible shudder, she seemed to break out of whatever trance had seized her and looked back at him. Her face was set in an expressionless mask.

The paladin raised a hand to wag an index finger at her in a mock warning.

"And no lies now," He rasped. "I can tell when others are lying."

This made a slow smile cross her lips.

"Indeed?" She asked sardonically, folding her arms just below her bosom as she cocked her head to one side. "And where does _this_ potent gift stem from? The Naaru as well? Or perhaps the Holy Light itself, to all faithful paladins?"

"Neither, actually," Cyros answered, managing a wan smile as he snorted derisively. He drank deeply again from the water skin. "It's completely natural. But," He continued, his voice growing softer, but also solemn. "Please stop avoiding my question, Ashira. I was honest with you earlier and I would request the same in return. Why were you at Andorhal? And why did you save me?"

The blood elf mage closed her eyes and lowered her head, as if weighing his two questions on her very soul. When she at last spoke, her voice was quiet as well.

"The truth then, Cyros... You must understand to begin with that the battle outside of Andorhal wasn't the first time I've crossed paths with that black knight," Ashira began. "Towards the end of the Third War, which you surely must have at least _heard_ about during your stay at Ironforge, Arthas' death knight lieutenants were amongst the deadliest foes my people had ever fought against. Steeped in foul necromancy and wielding corrupted rune-weapons stolen from dwarves and elves, they were doom to all who had the misfortune to see them. After-"

Here, Ashira took in a shuddering breath, before forging onward.

"After Quel'Thalas was burned and Silvermoon City razed by the undead legions, I met with a small cadre of mages and sorcerers amidst the ruins of our homeland. We swore a sacred oath, an inviolable pledge, dedicating our lives to tracking down and destroying as many of the death knights as we could. If given the opportunity, we would challenge Arthas himself."

Ashira began pacing back and forth, her eyes now open and staring at the ground as she recounted memories from long ago. Cyros watched her intently, all else forgotten, his tail unconsciously curling in tight as he absorbed the epic tale.

"We gave them no honor of single combat," She spat, her eyes narrowing in hate and loathing. "And instead we worked together in groups, combining our energies to overwhelm them with sheer magical power. But still-" Here, she paused again, her voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper, grating out through clenched teeth. "Still they were so _strong_."

Her hands bunched into tight fists, her arms trembling as she squeezed hard.

"It seemed near impossible to kill several of them and many of us fell in combat against those monsters. And our actions at last brought attention down upon us, for one night, we encountered _him_..."

Ashira abruptly stopped pacing and spun back around to face Cyros, her green eyes boring into his blue-white ones with a burning intensity.

"I still remember that night clearly. He ambushed us deep within the Eastern Plaguelands. It was three other mages and I; we were the last of our order. I remember his arrogance and confidence as he came striding out from the darkness, lightning splitting the sky overhead, heralding his advance. He had come alone, you see, alone to challenge myself and three of the strongest high elf mages I've ever trained with..."

Her eyes closed as she remembered, her voice slowing to a whispering crawl.

"I-I thought him a fool and said such to him, laughing mockingly in his face as the thunder rumbled overhead. But to my horror, I soon realized _I_ was the fool, for he proceeded to cut us down as easily as a woodcutter fells a tree."

She dropped her intense gaze, staring at the ground again.

"I don't know how I survived... I don't know if he merely thought me dead in his overconfidence or if he deliberately spared my life, a reminder forevermore that I wasn't strong enough to save my friends, my comrades, my..."

Ashira's body shuddered and Cyros could see her face was wet with tears. This open display of wounded strength – the struggle between vulnerability and discipline – drew him powerfully.

Before he knew what he was doing, the vindicator had stepped forward to embrace her in his arms, holding her gently against him to provide unspoken support and a measure of comfort. The blood elf wrapped her arms tightly around his waist in turn, clinging to him with something akin to desperation, as if she was drowning and he alone could keep her afloat.

She continued speaking, her voice muffled against his armor.

"From that day onward, I dedicated everything to finding that black knight and destroying him. I trained harder than ever, strengthening my magical powers to near twice what they had been before so I would be prepared for the next time we met." She laughed bitterly. "Apparently, it still wasn't enough..."

She turned her tear-streaked gaze up to him and Cyros could only raise a hand to tenderly wipe away the trickling droplets with a metal-clad finger, unable to voice a word.

"So now you know," Ashira whispered hoarsely. "_That_ is why I was at Andorhal, for I knew _he_ was there. As for saving you, I couldn't stand idly by and let him claim yet another life..."

Again, Cyros heard a hesitation in her voice, as if she knew something she wasn't telling him. But it didn't matter. Nothing really seemed to matter now, except _her_...

He realized abruptly that he was now clutching Ashira to him, holding her in a lover's embrace, her warm slender body pulled tightly against his armor-clad one. The vindicator hurriedly took a step back, removing his arms as quickly as if he grasped a poisonous viper. He saw hurt flash momentarily across her face, before her features smoothed themselves into an impassive expression as she stepped back as well, pulling out a purple silk cloth from a pocket as she did so to wipe away the remnants of her tears.

As Cyros gazed silently into her luminous green eyes, drinking in her exotic beauty yet again, he couldn't deny it had felt _right_ holding her in his arms, but the unchangeable reality remained that she was a_ sin'dorei_, her people sworn enemies of his own. And although he believed deep down that Ashira was different from the others, he still couldn't fully shake the distrust, the suspicion, the hatred... There was too much strife between their two races, too much bloodshed. He admired her strength of character and focused dedication; was awe-struck by her loveliness and grace; and even though he thought he could glimpse the spark of a connection between them, it would be impossible for them to-

The vindicator shook his head slightly, closing his eyes for a moment. No, now was not the time for such considerations.

Nevertheless, as a paladin sworn to fight against the Darkness in whatever forms it might take, _here_ was a noble task set before him. It was, undeniably, a worthy and honorable pursuit for the vindicator given the nature of their mutual enemy. And it was something Cyros had found almost nonexistent in his life during the long years of death and war as his people struggled for their very survival against the greenskin savages.

For too long he had done what was necessary in the name of retribution - no matter how grim or harsh - and had fought viciously against the draenei's enemies to simply hold the line for one more day, one more hour, one more minute... A never-ending battle to ensure his people's continued existence and yet it also was a battle he found he had..._exulted_ in at times. To crush his enemies beneath his crystalline warhammer, to destroy them utterly without remorse, _that_ had been the sole purpose of his existence for far too long and Prophet Velen had known this when he had sent Cyros from the Exodar.

But now, the vindicator abruptly realized with no small measure of mounting zeal, this could all perhaps change.

Perhaps _this_ was what Velen had sent him to find, what Cyros had been searching for during the past two years: a new beginning at long last, a chance to restore at least _some_ of the honor and nobility he had steadily discarded over years past.

Though suspicion and doubt still weighed heavily upon his hearts, Cyros nevertheless swore silently, upon the honor he still retained, that he would ensure the protection of Ashira until they had defeated their common foe, the black knight that had nearly killed them both.

In the name of the Holy Light, he would see it done.

- - - - -

Ashira and Cyros' progress was still relatively slow however, for both were fatigued and drained from the somewhat treacherous downhill passage over rough terrain as well as the furious battle both had waged against the death knight only a little over two days or so ago. But the draenei was uncertain if the undead commander had given up searching for them already and Ashira had agreed they should keep moving as often as their strength allowed.

Shelter and warmth were both major concerns at first, for the winds that flowed down and across the mountains were numbingly cold at times, especially during these last waning months before winter. Fortunately, sturdy trees, ranging from evergreens to firs, were in abundance. Some of these were clustered close enough together to form natural sanctuaries, while others had lost stout limbs and branches to storms, aging, or other unknown afflictions, allowing them to be gathered from the ground to build makeshift refuges.

Unfortunately, however noble or honorable Cyros' intentions were to aid and protect Ashira, the vindicator had found himself instead leaning greatly on her for support over the course of their travels, much to his own shame.

Here he was: a paladin, a warrior of the Holy Light, now reduced to staggering and stumbling along, barely conscious at times as his body was ravaged by the infection worming its way through him. Almost every hour his face seemed to grow a lighter and lighter shade of blue as his flesh paled from fever. Rivulets of sweat continuously trickled down his cheeks and neck, and along his back, chilling his body in the cool air and causing him to shudder violently despite the supposedly snug leather clothing he wore beneath his armor to protect him from both the elements and chafing. Even the careful fires they managed to bring crackling to life - using flint and tinder from Ashira's travel pack - seemed unable to provide enough heat to warm him sufficiently. And after every short period of rest, as Cyros dozed off into fitful bouts of uneasy sleep, his eyelids as heavy as lead, he had proven harder and harder to awaken, his breathing becoming more rasping and strained.

Though Ashira kept her peace, worry and anxiety continuously gnawed at her from within every time she gazed upon the suffering paladin. Cyros had proven to be as stoic and stubborn as she had judged all paladins she had ever encountered to be. Though his face remained as unflinching and impassive as he could force himself to make it, she could see clearly the agony in his luminous blue-white eyes. Fresh poultices applied regularly to his horrific wounds and the tea she prepared from boiled water and healing herbs didn't even so much as grant him a temporary reprieve from the pain. Ashira found she had to oftentimes bite her lower lip hard to stop herself from trying to urge the both of them on to a faster pace, knowing if they didn't reach help soon his death was a certainty.

The blood elf still wasn't sure _why_ she felt so obligated to save this draenei, still wrestled with the reason why she had taken his life so seriously into her keeping, as if it were her own at stake. She owed Cyros nothing and hadn't even known who he was when she risked her life to save his at Andorhal, when she could've just left him to die. No one would've known what she had done; no one would've seen her actions and passed judgement upon her.

But during their rest periods, as Ashira gazed upon the tormented vindicator and grappled with her own feelings on what she felt when she looked upon him, she slowly came to realize at least one part of the truth. And that was such an act as leaving him to perish and then be raised as an undead mockery of what he had once been would've never left her memory. It would've been seared into her mind for all eternity until the consequence of her decision that day eventually drove her mad.

What was done was therefore done, and thus far Ashira couldn't say she truly regretted saving Cyros' life, despite a few prior clashes with other draenei over the past two years. Right now though, in the face of the near blood-feud between their two peoples and his own blatant misgiving at times, Cyros had still treated her with courtesy and respect. In fact, she reflected, he had treated her better than most of the cavalier and pompous males of her own race, and now Ashira had found she couldn't bring herself to leave him behind anymore than she could easily discard a piece of herself.

She had tried to convince herself several times now that the flush of blood to her face and the shudder that rippled down her spine when she remembered how tightly the vindicator had held her against him earlier were nothing more than her body's natural reactions to the chill air surrounding them, but...

But her words had echoed hollowly within her mind, her false conviction melting beneath the burning truth of what she knew she had felt. By the Sunwell, she couldn't even remember the last time another had held her with such care and tenderness in that one fleeting moment of weakness they had both shared before reality had thrust its uncaring, pragmatic blade between them once more.

Amongst the blood elves, even after the restoration of the Sunwell, such honest and genuine desire seemed to no longer exist, for _power_ had become everything. Even the lowliest scraped and clawed their hardest, desperately trying to seize whatever scraps of it that they could from those above and around them. Twinkling eyes, pleasant laughter, and charming smiles now oftentimes masked daggers and poison only just out of sight. Ashira's own quest for vengeance and her barely concealed disgust with how far her people had fallen had kept her far from the new perverted decadence of Silvermoon City, where magic, lust, and egotism had seemingly infected everyone; an alluring siren's call that one couldn't simply turn a deaf ear to once you had been truly exposed.

These newly arrived draenei though were..._different_, and Cyros himself, at least outwardly, seemed to be no exception. Hardened by near constant war and bloodshed, driven onward by honor, duty, and a personal sense of courage and pride, the draenei at least, Ashira had discovered, looked you squarely in the eye – both the men and women alike – and did not flinch. Forced to unite together for their very survival against the Burning Legion, concepts such as treachery and betrayal had apparently become inimical to them over the years. Their very idealism and nobility made them seem almost innocent in a way, Ashira reflected, but it was an innocence not to be taken lightly lest the offender awaken the sleeping dragon beneath.

After the first clear night, it rained on the second, the heavy downpour bitterly cold, catching the blood elf and draenei out in the open even as they scrambled for cover. Ashira and Cyros eventually huddled together under a jagged outcropping of rock that had once been an immense boulder, shattered in the past by some staggering force. Teeth chattering and breath misting from their lips, it was Ashira who soon realized the danger and made up her mind. Stumbling gracelessly over to Cyros, she began quickly undoing the sturdy straps holding most of the armor of his torso locked in place.

"What-what are you doing?" The vindicator weakly protested, though he was too exhausted to truly resist, his body trembling almost spasmodically beneath his sodden attire.

"Don't you get any impure ideas, Cyros," Ashira replied, managing a wan smile as she pulled away the armor plates protecting his chest and back. Reaching up, her slim fingers began working on his pauldrons and gauntlets. "But since there's no way we can make a fire, if we don't do this then both of us will freeze to death tonight."

Comprehension bludgeoned its way slowly through Cyros' dulled mind and after a moment's hesitation he at last began trying to help her, his fingers fumbling awkwardly with straps and buckles. Soon he was divested of most of his battle-plate as well as his leather garments, though he made sure to keep his loin cloth tied firmly in place. Removing that last article of clothing would be asking too much, even in the cause of survival.

Ashira herself wasted no further time and after rising to her feet, she stripped quickly with smooth efficient movements, using her hands to undo the various ties of her gown before sliding her shoulders out from under it and letting the soaked garment fall to the ground in a heap around her ankles. The thin shift of white cloth she wore underneath was plastered against her body by the rain water.

Cyros leaned back against the boulder and closed his eyes immediately as the blood elf turned back around to face him. Even in his somewhat hazy vision she might as well have been standing gloriously naked before him, her ample bosom threatening to tumble out from her clinging night dress as she leaned down to crouch beside him.

"Respectful as always, sir paladin?" Ashira teased with a soft smile as she pulled the still somewhat dry woolen blanket from her pack.

"Would-would you prefer then that I stared?" Cyros managed to reply, his voice dry and hoarse though a faint smile of his own was on his lips.

To her surprise, Ashira found the skin of her face burning as she blushed at the joking proposal. Shaking her head in irritation at being so embarrassed, she quickly pulled her shift over her head and laid it out flat along with her gown and the draenei's leather clothing, to perhaps dry at least somewhat over the night. She then stretched herself out along Cyros' right side, snuggling her naked body in tightly against his before pulling the blanket up around them. The rough stone was hard and cold against her left arm and ribs, and she felt his body shudder upon contact with her own cool flesh, goosebumps rising across his skin. The mage quickly but gently began rubbing his chest and shoulders with her right hand, careful to avoid anywhere close to his wounds, trying to reassure him while also forcing warmth into his body from the friction of her touch. Still, Ashira could feel the tenseness in his muscles, anxiety warring with exhaustion at lying so exposed and vulnerable alongside her.

The mage could almost sense his troubling, brooding thoughts and most likely she could grasp them, at least somewhat, if she merely reached out with her magic-

No. Such a breach would be near unforgivable were Cyros to sense what she was doing, despite her empathetic intentions. Instead, she was content to relax her head on his shoulder, her right leg draped across his own.

"Are you always so gentle, Ashira?" Cyros murmured with a soft sigh of contentment, slurring his words almost deliriously as his mind began wandering yet again, unable to focus.

Taken aback by the honest question in his guileless, worn out state of sincerity, Ashira could only pause for a long moment, her body freezing in uncertainty as her guard was pierced as cleanly as a stiletto stabbing through plate armor. At last she roused herself, her hand continuing to rub tenderly across his body.

"Shh," She whispered soothingly to him, unable to give voice to anything else.

And as the rain continued to fall, its rhythm steady and unabating, Ashira could feel the twin pulses of his heartbeats slow as Cyros began drifting off to sleep. His troubled thoughts receded as his body relaxed beneath her touch, his breathing deepening though still rattling softly in his dry throat. Still, the sound of his beating hearts combined with the ongoing shower of rain from the skies above began lulling her too into a more relaxed state, weariness threatening to overwhelm her at any moment.

For now, she would pretend that the blood elves and draenei weren't at war; that she wasn't sleeping alongside a mortal enemy of her people. For now, she would imagine things were different between them, that the world wasn't quite as bleak as it seemed of late, and she would instead embrace Cyros this night as a friend, a companion.

Ashira lay beside Cyros in silence, holding him closely, his body warm against hers, and sank down slowly into the first peaceful sleep she had experienced in what seemed like ages. The last of her conscious thoughts no longer regretted the events of the past nor feared what the future held on the morrow, but instead merely cherished the wondrous tranquility of the present.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_Two years earlier..._

"Cyros!"

The harbinger froze, recognizing the soft and gentle voice that called out his name from behind him. Cyros turned around to see a young draenei woman walking quickly towards him, wearing a simple dress of blue and red.

She was strikingly beautiful, with a pert nose and full lips, her light blue skin both fair and smooth, devoid of any blemishes or disfigurements. Her shoulder-length hair, dark and lustrous, was a striking contrast to her pale blue complexion. Her twin delicate horns, emerging from just above her temples, stretched back along her head slightly before curling gracefully about in spirals.

"Priestess," The harbinger said formally, bowing his head to her in a respectful gesture.

"Must you always be so formal, Cyros?" She replied, smiling as she came up to him. "It seems I must always remind you I have a name, just as you do, and it would please me to no end were you to use it."

"Kari," Cyros said hesitatingly, as if uneasy at the prospect of addressing one of the revered priesthood in such an informal manner, before he stiffened. "What may I do for you?"

"I've heard you're leaving the Exodar," Kari replied, her voice dropping low in concern. "Is this true?"

"It is," Cyros confirmed, nodding slightly. "I've been requested by Prophet Velen to escort Emissary Taluun on his journey to meet with the leaders of a far-distant city."

"How long will you be gone?"

"In truth, I'm not certain," The paladin replied, shaking his head. "We will first travel to the night elves' capitol city of Darnassus to the north. There, we've been told a human ambassador and his followers will meet with us to guide us the rest of the way to their own capitol city of Stormwind. It's apparently a long journey across a great ocean to the east."

"But..." Kari said tentatively. "But you hate boats."

Cyros could only stand there for a long moment, staring uncomprehendingly into Kari's eyes with a confused frown, until he saw the ghost of a smile grace her lips. An answering smile spread across his face in reply and he chuckled.

"That's very true," He said, still laughing. "That's very true indeed. In this case, however, I must trust to the wisdom and judgement of Prophet Velen in choosing me for this task..." The harbinger's voice trailed off into silence, his face darkening as he brooded on unvoiced personal thoughts.

Recognizing his expression all too easily, Kari quickly spoke up.

"But you'll return as soon as you can, right? I'll see you again before too long?"

Cyros hesitated, staring into her questioning eyes, before shaking his head slowly.

"I'm not sure, Kari... Nothing is as it should be right now. And I...I'm not someone you should try to become close to-"

"Cyros," She said firmly, interrupting as she stepped closer, gazing up at him. "I know what they say about you; I've heard _all_ of the rumors and stories. But _I_ know who you are... I know you're angry, lonely and in pain; I've seen what you've done when enraged, but I've also witnessed the _good_ you've wrought as well. You're _not_ a monster, even if you believe yourself to be," She said, her voice softening as she reached up to place a hand tenderly against his cheek. "Please let me help you. I want to be there for you, Cyros; I don't want to see you suffer."

For a long moment, Cyros could only stand there with his eyes closed, savoring her warm touch against his cheek. How many years had it been since another had laid a hand on him in concern, in affection, in..._love_? He longed to step forward and sweep Kari up in his arms and swirl her about through the air, laughing aloud in joy, so grateful for this one lovely young woman for giving him a mere taste of that which he had lost so long ago...

But then Velen's ominous words returned hauntingly, echoing within his skull, and Cyros took in a deep breath as he forced himself to take a step back, though the pain and reluctance were evident on his visage. His left hand rose to enfold hers.

_...in the end you will destroy yourself and harm those innocents you swore to protect._

"I'm sorry, Kari," He whispered, removing her hand from his cheek and steeling himself for what had to be done, even as he saw the confusion and hurt plainly within her eyes. "But I...I'm not who you believe me to be. You deserve far more now than what I can give. Farewell, priestess."

Bowing stiffly at the neck, Cyros turned to stride off, knowing even now Emissary Taluun and his retinue were most likely awaiting his presence at the newly constructed harbor just west of the Exodar's landing site.

"Cyros!" Kari called out after him, her faltering voice forming a heartrending plea.

The harbinger fought hard to keep himself moving, knowing if he faltered now then he would never recover. And so he continued on towards the entryway leading out from the Traders' Tier and into the main hall. Though he knew Kari was strong-willed, that she would recover and heal with time, he also knew she would be standing behind him for now in misery, forlorn and alone. He knew her tender, gentle heart would be breaking, that tears would be trickling unashamedly down her cheeks as she watched him depart in numb silence.

Just as he also knew she would never see the answering tears that dripped from his own eyes.

- - - - -

The rain had ceased midway through the night, dying off into a light drizzle before finally ceasing completely as the storm dispersed. Both mage and paladin awoke late in the morning, their eyes blinking blearily in the light of the yellow sun shining brightly overhead amidst a mostly cloudless blue sky.

The two of them did not say much to one another as they carefully extricated themselves from each other's arms, for nothing truly needed to be said. And neither did they desire to ruin what they had shared together last night with awkward, clumsy words for something they could not truly express. It could not be denied that the association between them – initially merely cordial and hinging upon mutual survival – had warmed into something more, suddenly and unexpectedly, and they were now each unsure about what the other saw there. Whatever relationship that now bound them, whether it was merely friendship or perhaps something greater, it was nonetheless fragile, dangling from a still developing sense of trust and honesty, and both feared that a careless word might somehow shred the dubious foundation.

Within only two days though it had seemed as if they had been journeying together for far longer and now each knew what the other would do to prepare that morning before they continued on their travels. However, there did remain a sense of urgency in their actions, an unspoken need both shared to be on the move and soon. Other important needs, however, demanded their attention as well and thus they did make the time to bathe quickly in a nearby stream that had overflowed its banks, swollen by rainwater during the night.

After drying off as best he could, careful to avoid stretching his wounds too much, Cyros could not suppress the look of absolute loathing and discomfort that twisted his countenance as he donned his leather clothing once again, still cold and damp from the storm. Ashira took one glance at him after she had finished changing first and found she could not hold back the laughter that swelled in her throat, bursting forth in a light and musical torrent.

"I'm sorry, but you should see your face, Cyros!" She said when she finally recovered, raising a hand to her lips to stifle the giggles still threatening to spill forth. "You look like you swallowed a toad!"

"How dare you!" Cyros muttered in mock anger, smiling weakly as he began to suit up in his battle-plate. "I'll remember your grievous insult this day, mage."

Ashira snorted, barely managing to maintain a solemn composure as she executed a rather crude curtsey.

"And if you forget, sir vindicator," She stated eloquently, "ever will I be here to remind you of my boorish manners this day."

Cyros smiled and coughed in reply as she knelt before him in the next moment to help secure his greaves and leg armor in place, tightening oiled leather straps, tying thongs neatly, and locking metal buckles.

"If I had the energy," He rasped, chuckling roughly, "I'd deal with your insolence." As she rose to help him with his pauldrons, he added, "As it is though, for now you've been spared my wrath."

"Praise be to the Light then," Ashira murmured sarcastically, her emerald-green eyes sparkling with amusement.

A good-natured growl from the towering draenei was all she received in reply.

- - - - -

The horrible screams and shouts of terror, agony, and despair were deafening, and seemed as if they would never cease. But, one by one, each individual voice was eventually silenced, cut off abruptly mid-cry or more often than not, dying away into wet, hacking coughs or choking gurgles as the high elves of Quel'Danil Lodge were overrun and massacred by the Scourge.

Elthion, one of only a few mage-priests of his community, heard Telthemore's voice ringing out over the cacophony, strong and commanding as he urged those still left alive in their defensive circle to fight on against the undead, to show their foes that they would never yield. Even as the mage-priest whirled his oak stave like a quarterstaff about his head, lashing out with its metal-tipped ends to drive back two snarling, spitting ghouls, he caught sight for a brief instant of the tall militia captain, resplendent in his fighting uniform of green, gold, and red. Elthion's heart ached for an instant as he beheld those sacred colors, the ancient heraldry of Silvermoon City still unsoiled, emblazoned clearly across the captain's leather armor vest.

Even as the mage-priest watched, the captain thrust out with his elegant silver-bladed longsword, impaling a lunging ghoul through the throat, before he whirled about immediately. His golden shield lashed out to smash an advancing zombie clean off its feet even as the captain tore his weapon clear from the ghoul's still standing corpse to slash another shuffling zombie's head from its shoulders in the next instant. Every one of Telthemore's movements was smooth and flowing, his fighting style deadly in its quick efficiency. But the captain's final defiant stand could not persist for long as the last members of his valiant militia were dragged down, dying courageously at their captain's side as they tried to protect their families and loved ones.

Even as Elthion shouted aloud in warning – a sound that was immediately drowned beneath the waning yet still hellish clamor – doom came upon Telthemore, an immense grotesque monstrosity stomping out of the flames and smoke to loom over the high elf warrior.

The unholy abomination burbled, its phlegmy swollen voice rising in savage delight and bestial triumph as it swung high the massive cleaver in its right fist. Even from across the town square, fighting his own losing battle against the undead as he unleashed destructive waves of holy energies mixed with arcane power, Elthion could see the twisted glare of hate on Telthemore's face as he launched himself fearlessly at the monster. Cutting down those few Scourge that tried to bar his path with swift strokes of his blade, the militia captain flung himself up at the abomination's deformed head, longsword raised. But the unholy creation reacted much more quickly than anticipated, two arms near its midriff lashing out at Telthemore with a long length of thick rusty chain. The barbed hook at the end of the chain caught one of the captain's legs, tearing through leather armor, flesh, and muscle, and he was abruptly jerked down from midair, smashing hard into the ground on his back, both shield and sword flying from his stunned grasp.

Gurgling, the near mindless abomination raised one massive foot slowly even as the militia captain shook his head to clear it, struggling to rise, to find his weapon. After a long moment, he glanced up to behold the undead monster preparing to crush him.

"No! _Brother_!" Elthion screamed in anguish as he raised his hands to begin incanting one last desperate spell. But he was too late, the abomination stomping down in the next moment. Telthemore disappeared beneath from sight without so much as a scream and even over the fighting the audible sound of bones crunching could be heard. Bright scarlet blood welled out from under the monstrosity's flabby, rotting foot.

The mage-priest collapsed to his knees, his head bowed, long blonde hair tumbling forward to cover his face. His arms fell limply to his sides, his staff dropping away from nerveless fingers.

_It was over. It was all over. _

_Let the end come swiftly..._

"No," A deep whispering voice came from his left, sinister and terrible. "This isn't the end for _you_, Elthion. Not yet."

Elthion slowly raised his tear-filled eyes to see a harbinger of Death striding towards him steadily, heavy boots treading forcibly against the cold uncaring ground beneath. Wiping his eyes clear, the mage-priest beheld clearly the burning red eyes, the black plate-armor, the sickening flesh-wrapped shield, and the menacing obsidian morningstar. The death knight's ragged purple cloak billowed out behind him in the cold wind, and the ghouls and other Scourge horrors cowered in his wake as he passed them.

The death knight walked right up to the mage-priest, glowering down at him.

"Your service is needed, Elthion of the high elves," The harsh resonating voice spoke again. "And unlike your brethren, my needs require you alive and unharmed. For now."

"My-my people are dead and my brother..._murdered_," The mage-priest said heavily, his voice a strangled sob as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, his body trembling as the tears threatened to spill forth. "And you-you think I would _willingly_ come with you, _serve you_?"

Elthion's eyes at last opened, his own face twisting to mirror Telthemore's defiant glare before his demise.

"Never," He continued, his voice intensifying into a rasping shout as he struggled to rise. "Never! Do you hear me, you-!"

The backhand blow that struck him across the face came hard and swift, corroded blades along the back of the gauntlet slicing open the flesh of his cheek and jaw.

"My patience has limits; my power does not," The death knight snarled. "Now you will be silent and do my bidding or I shall make you suffer torments such as you've never imagined in your darkest nightmares."

Elthion spat forth blood and two broken teeth, his head throbbing as he shook it slightly to regain his senses, but even as he pushed himself up again, he smiled grimly at the death knight.

"Do you think I fear you now?" He whispered and the terrible grin widened, becoming almost insanely gleeful. "You've already taken from me _all_ that I had left: my friends, my family... There's _nothing_ you can threaten me with now that would make me quake in fear, shudder in terror. But perhaps there _is_ one thing more that _I_ can do..."

"Really?" The death knight laughed scornfully. "And what would that be?"

"_End you._"

And with that, Elthion suddenly flung himself at the death knight, wrapping his arms and legs around his undead foe's armored body like some humanoid parasite. The Scourge commander cursed harshly, his terrible strength immediately heaving against the high elf's desperation.

In another instant, he would easily break free, but that one moment was all the mage-priest needed as he channeled all of his burning hate, towering rage, aching despair, and rending sorrow into one final spell. He felt his blood boiling, his eyes searing like twin stars in his skull, his organs bursting and liquefying within his body as the intensity of his incantation, with no outlet to vent its power, consumed him utterly. His eyes shone white-hot within his skull as they melted, running down his blackening cheeks like sizzling wax, and even as his lungs disintegrated, Elthion managed one last bold howl, his voice rasping as his burning windpipe flaked away into ashes.

In another instant, before the death knight could throw himself clear, the mage-priest exploded in a storm of pure, white-hot energy.

- - - - -

It was during the afternoon of the third day that Cyros and Ashira finally stumbled clear of the Hinterlands' northern mountains, only to be greeted by a terrible sight.

For the past few hours in their descent, the two of them had been smelling acrid smoke carried on the wind, mixed with the foul stenches of burned meat, the metallic pang of blood, and other far worse odors. Each bore a grim expression that mirrored the other as they crested one final grassy hillock to gaze down at the smoldering remains of Quel'Danil Lodge.

Though still called a Lodge by its high elf populace, those who had chosen not to join Prince Kael'thas' _sin'dorei_, Quel'Danil had steadily grown in the Hinterlands to become a fairly large town. Sturdy protective walls had later been built around it with help by the Wildhammer dwarves of Aerie Peak to protect their allies' budding community.

There were hardly any buildings left intact in the once fortified high elf town. Most lay in smoking ruins of burnt timber and cracked stone. Here and there, flickering fires still licked greedily at scorched wood. As Cyros and Ashira rounded a corner of the blackened and partially demolished stockade walls, approaching the north gatehouse, they both saw that the twin gates had been crushed inward by some monstrous force. Massive cracks and dents scarred the thick wood, the gates hanging limply from their frame. Indeed, the whole gatehouse itself seemed buckled inward by the power of such blows.

As they proceeded cautiously into the town, Ashira found herself inadvertently pressing close to the towering vindicator, her eyes flicking about in constant vigilance. Silently, she prepared a destructive spell, ready to unleash it at the first sign of trouble.

Cyros was also glancing around carefully, but his mind was still distracted by hurt, his right hand reaching across to press against his left side. He held his warhammer tightly in his left hand, but the weapon was on the verge of dragging against the ground, even as the draenei tried to heft it up. His breath came in labored gasps as he staggered along. His past three attempts at cleansing his wounds again had met with the same failure as the first time.

It was quite plain a fierce battle had raged within the town. Doors were torn completely from their frames or crushed inward, shutters hung loosely from windows, and the main path was torn up by trampling feet and claws. Here and there, various gore-streaked weapons lay on the ground where their wielders had either fallen in combat or dropped them to flee. The stench of death was overpowering, the lingering smoke stinging the blood elf's and draenei's eyes. And yet, despite the drying blood splashed everywhere, there wasn't a sign of a single corpse.

Cyros glared about him, his glowing eyes narrowed in cold anger. There wasn't a single body. Not one. These poor high elves had been slain and then undoubtedly raised by vile necromancy to reinforce the undead army.

"Someone will pay for this," He whispered through clenched teeth, his grip tightening on his warhammer, his bone-plated tail curling tightly in against his body.

The vindicator was not a tracker, but as a skilled warrior he could trace the battle's events from some of the signs.

As his eyes wandered carefully across the ground and amongst the ruined town, he could clearly see in his mind's eye where the first elves involved in the defense had scrambled forth from the small town square or spilled from their homely cabins, the assault from the north catching their tranquil community by surprise. Cyros could see them standing their ground before the northern gates, preparing for the attack. His eyes followed the jagged lines of dozens of burned and broken arrow shafts and javelins stitched along the inside of the stockade walls, indicating their enemies had literally come swarming over the defenses.

The vindicator followed the elves' movements as the gates were finally smashed open by some terrible monster, its massive feet having left large distorted imprints in the ground, the furious onslaught driving the defenders back towards the town square. He picked out signs of where the elves had been trying to retreat south towards a smaller gate, but noticed they had abruptly stopped. Glancing up, Cyros saw more arrows and broken spear shafts lining the southern wall or sunk into the ground before it. He perceived where many of these defenders had gathered together to form a circle, the horrified elves realizing their town was surrounded. They were under attack from all sides and there would be no escape. He beheld their doomed last stand, before their formation was shattered by the monster from the north gates. Its footprints indicated it had charged directly into the group of elves, undoubtedly scattering them into pairs at the most to be overwhelmed and killed. A great black scar of charred earth only a short distance to the north-east indicated something had exploded quite fiercely, but Cyros could only speculate as to what had happened there.

The vindicator knelt in the center of what had been the high elves' final battle, a gauntleted hand reaching down to brush across the charred and blood-stained remains of a stuffed toy horse. The elves had been fighting to defend their families, their children... He closed his eyes, his tail lashing in rage as he clenched his gauntlet into a trembling fist.

This butchery... It had to have been-

"It was _him_," Ashira said, startling Cyros from his reverie as she confirmed what they were both thinking. Her voice was flat, this destruction a sight she had numbed herself to long ago. "I can feel his foul presence. He was here, recently."

"If he _was_ here," The paladin replied grimly, rising to his hooves, his eyes lingering on the stuffed animal for a moment longer, "then we dare not delay. There may be some stragglers of his army lurking about and we're both still too weak for a prolonged fight."

Ashira nodded.

"You're right," She agreed as they left the devastated town through the southern gates. "We should head west for Aerie Peak. I doubt his force is strong enough to attack the Wildhammer dwarves directly, and you said you came here with paladins and priests. Surely one of them _must_ be able to heal you. You can tell them I'm your prisoner if necessary to explain why I'm with you. Do you think you can make it?"

Cyros nodded, a sharp jerk of his head.

"I must," He said hoarsely. "I doubt I have more than two days though."

"Don't...Don't speak of such things," Ashira said quickly, voice soft, her eyes unable to meet his gaze. "We just have to keep moving."

The vindicator raised up a heavy armored hand to rest it on her left shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. One of her hands rose seemingly of its own accord to grasp his tightly in slim fingers.

"That this should have happened only now and never before," The blood elf whispered to herself, while still gazing off into the distance. At last, she looked up at the paladin, speaking firmly, "We must travel past sunset and into the night if you're to live."

Cyros banged his right fist against his chest, over his primary heart, in salute.

"As you command, my lady!" He rasped, his tone one of polite formality. A wan smile flitted across his face, his cheeks flushed with fever.

This managed to bring an answering smile to Ashira's face, though the vindicator could see the tightness at the corners of her mouth.

"If I wasn't so certain you'd never get up again, I'd knock you over," She replied.

The vindicator managed a rumbling chuckle.

"Don't worry, for I would crawl after you instead."

- - - - -

He waited patiently in the shadows of the trees, unmoving, almost swallowed up in darkness as the night advanced relentlessly on. His red eyes were the only visible sign of his existence, glowing ominously in the deepening gloom.

The attack on Quel'Danil Lodge had ended in victory, as the death knight knew it would. What he had not anticipated though was the high elves' staunch resistance, nor their few mage-priests'..._resolve_, ending their own lives willingly before he could capture them.

_But perhaps there __**is**__ one thing more that I can do..._

_Really? And what would that be?_

_**End you.**_

The death knight growled under his breath at the recent confrontation. Elthion's unexpected sacrifice in an effort to destroy him had failed utterly, but the mage-priest's spell _had_ managed to truly wound him at least and that had been something..._surprising_, almost unsettling. He had not experienced true injuries in many years now. Elthion's attack had been a hard reminder that no matter how powerful he had become, there still existed those with strength enough to end him.

The high elves themselves had also slain many of his undead minions before at last being overwhelmed. Even their corpses had provided little in the way of fresh reinforcements compared to the number whose unlives they had ended. But he had strode through the burning town in triumph nonetheless, even as his forces tore the last of the elves to pieces and his necromancer began the dread rituals that would raise the dead up to serve him.

The death knight disdained the use of necromancy, despite the fact his form was sustained and augmented by its terrible power. His gauntleted right hand tightened around the bone haft of his morningstar.

Strength of arms and unwavering courage would _always_ prevail over-

He threw back his head and laughed harshly, the sound cold and cruel, echoing through the trees. Such thoughts were from his life before; _always_ he had to remind himself of that. The present was all that mattered now. And even in the past, he had been wrong, terribly wrong.

Memories stirred, as they always did sooner or later.

Had strength of arms saved his father from his fate? Had courage and resolve saved..._him_?

He glanced down at his black armored form. His body trembled with rage.

No. Such ideals should stay buried in the past where they belonged. All that remained now was his mission in the name of his chosen liege, the dread Lich King, to destroy the world of the living and turn the realm of light into one of eternal shadow.

And to accomplish that mission, the death knight first needed to fulfill the task he had taken upon himself. He had failed in his attempt at seizing the four mage-priests at Quel'Danil Lodge, but it mattered little. _She_ was all that really concerned him now. Her strength had increased greatly since last they had fought; he had seen this at Andorhal, a very _enlightening_ experience, to say the least. He would succeed with her potential alone.

The death knight reached out through the darkness, searching...

Ah... **There** she was. And **he** was still with her... Good-

_Greythar..._

The voice that abruptly spoke was deep, chill, and firm, almost resonating.

The death knight could feel the lofty vastness of his lord nearby and knelt in deference.

_Yes, my lord, I am here._

_Something is amiss, Duke Greythar. I sensed something troubling within you, much like I have before._

_It was nothing, my lord. Shadows of the past. My plan proceeds well enough. Azeroth will soon be yours._

_See to it you don't fail me, Greythar. This is to be your final mission in Azeroth. Return to Icecrown at once to report to me directly upon its completion. There is much we have to...__**discuss**__._

The death knight struggled to keep the resentment and anger from reaching his voice, but he knew he was only partially successful.

_I hear...and obey, my lord. _

He closed his eyes as he knelt, the shadows completely engulfing him. There was a shiver in the night, as if the forest itself trembled at his passage, and he was gone.

- - - - -

It was the sounds that alerted the draenei and blood elf of their enemies' approach.

Bestial roars and blood-curdling howls tore apart the otherwise quiet night air. Ashira and Cyros were on their feet at once, back-to-back in the small clearing where they had stopped for a brief rest. The amber jewel clutched atop the mage's ebony staff was glowing with a bright golden light, providing the illumination they needed to travel by.

Cyros hefted his warhammer in both hands, the weapon as heavy as a leaden weight. He had noticed earlier the tiny lightnings that crackled within the purple crystal head of the ancient soul-bound weapon had grown fainter and fainter with the passage of time, heralding his inevitable death to the infection corrupting his body. Despite the circumstances, the vindicator smiled grimly. The Light had at least favored him one final time, allowing him the opportunity to extinguish more of its foes before falling in battle. He whispered a solemn prayer, appealing for the strength needed to accomplish this last goal.

But then a darker thought crossed his mind an instant later. If he fell, what would happen to Ashira? The thought of her being killed, only to be raised up again in eternal servitude made him grit his teeth, his eyes narrowing as his arms flexed, gripping the warhammer tighter.

Cyros' jaw set in grim determination, tail curling in tightly against his body. The paladin would see both of them burn in holy fire before that happened.

"Ashira," He said hesitantly as the roars drew closer, echoing through the blackness beyond the frail circle of light. "If we should fall-"

"Never fear," She replied softly, but there was steel in the velvet of her voice. "They will not have us."

The vindicator half-turned to her, hesitating, wishing there was time to say more, to tell her-

But it was then the first of the ghouls burst forth from the woods.

"For the Light!" Cyros shouted as he stepped forward without hesitation, his deep voice echoing strongly across the clearing even as his warhammer swung out in a crushing blow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The heavy crystal head of the warhammer crashed into a lunging ghoul, crushing the creature's skull like a melon and flinging its limp body back into four of its fellows, bowling them over in a thrashing heap of tangled rotting limbs.

Cyros knew he didn't have the strength now to easily wield the weight of his weapon, but even so his mind was already calculating with trained combat instinct. The vindicator instead allowed his body to flow with the warhammer, effortlessly changing his first attack into a broad sweeping strike. As he turned with the weapon's momentum, Cyros merely adjusted his aim with relative ease. The heavy crystal head smashed another ghoul's legs out from under it as the undead creature launched itself at him like a ballista bolt, its claws outstretched, reaching for his throat. The force of the impact sent the monster pin-wheeling into a tree. It landed against the unyielding wood with a heavy crunch of breaking bones and didn't rise again.

Behind him, the paladin heard the crackle of fire and felt the intense heat radiating out as Ashira conjured forth a fireball, unleashing it in the next moment. The orange-red sphere of flame exploded amongst a group of four ghouls, blasting their foul bodies into dozens of burning fragments.

Even as the black ashes and charred meat rained down in a revolting shower, another trio of ghouls sprang for the blood elf mage. Raising her staff, Ashira encased herself in a protective shield of shimmering blue energy as she began to chant another destructive spell. But as the ghouls slashed at her frenziedly with their bony claws, she gasped, her green eyes widening as her casting was interrupted, the damage to the mana barrier draining her strength.

"Ashira!" Cyros shouted as he reversed his warhammer, spinning it around like a fighting staff.

In the next instant, he fed the sharply pointed end to a screeching ghoul, stabbing the haft so hard into the creature's mouth it cracked out the back of its skull in a spray of bone and gore. Withdrawing the weapon swiftly with a jerk, he savagely kicked the lifeless corpse aside even as it began to collapse.

"Are you all right?"

"I-I will be," She panted with some effort, her breath coming hard and fast.

Pointing with her right hand, she drove the ghouls back with a howling whirlwind of glacial cold. She then raised her ebony staff high, before slamming the end against the ground, spitting forth the final casting words in a hiss of anger. The spell took form explosively, intense flames bursting forth from the ground beneath the ghouls, incinerating several of them instantly. The wide pillar of fire spread outward in another instant, forming a burning circle that drove still more ghouls scrambling back into the forest, bestial shrieks of anger accompanying their hasty withdrawal.

But just as she began to smile grimly at her accomplishment, a rusty sword gripped in a skeletal hand cleaved suddenly through the mana shield, slashing her left shoulder almost to the bone. Crying out in agony, Ashira stumbled to the right, falling to the ground even as she clutched at the terrible wound.

Driving a fist squarely into the face of another ghoul, Cyros spun around at hearing the blood elf's shout of pain. Armored skeletal warriors had begun emerging from the woods and one stood alone, poised over the fallen mage as sanguine blood dripped from its corroded broadsword.

It raised its weapon for the killing blow.

"_No!_" The vindicator roared, bringing his warhammer down in a tremendous overhead swing onto the skeleton's head.

The undead revenant simply exploded in a storm of bone fragments mixed with corroded plate armor as the crystalline weapon plowed through its body to smash into the hard ground. Cyros grimaced as the shockwave of the impact ripped up through his arms, shaking his entire body for an instant. And then he was moving again, lashing out with his left fist in a heavy backhand blow to tear another skeleton's skull from its exposed vertebrae, sending it spinning across the clearing to disappear into the darkness.

Unexpectedly, the remaining armored skeletons fell back in unison to the clearing's perimeter and though they were now hidden from sight by the dark of the trees, Cyros could still hear the low growls and snarls of the ghouls as they too only looked on for now, scrambling about through the underbrush.

Chest heaving from his exertions, Cyros glared about him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

_What trickery was this?_

A rivulet of sweat trickled down his brow only to be wiped away by an armored forearm.

_The undead were always relentless opponents, needing no rest and attacking with constant savagery until they are finally destroyed. _

_They did __**not**__ retreat...not unless-_

"Well, well, well..."

The familiar cold and whispering voice hissed from just beyond the flickering light cast by Ashira's staff and the glow of smoldering embers from her fire spells.

"You two are proving far more resilient than I thought," The unseen specter sounded almost amused. "It seems I may have underestimated the both of you."

The death knight at last strode forward into the clearing, still bearing the morningstar and flesh-wrapped shield the vindicator remembered well. His red eyes burned brightly in the depths of his hood.

"What do you want, dark one?" Cyros spat, hefting up his warhammer in rubbery hands. He could barely lift the weapon earlier, but the battle had sent a fresh surge of adrenaline coursing through him like liquid lightning. However, the vindicator knew the sensation would undoubtedly fade away soon and with it any hope he had of surviving this confrontation.

The death knight waved an armored hand at him dismissively.

"What I want has nothing to do with _you_," He stated disdainfully and then pointed at Ashira as she lay panting on the ground, her right hand still pressed tightly against her bleeding shoulder. "I am here for _her_."

"_No._"

The hulking paladin's voice was a growl, low and menacing, as he stepped decisively in front of the fallen blood elf.

"I won't let you take her."

The death knight threw back his head, laughing long and hard in horrible good humor. The terrible sound sent a ripple of fear down Cyros' spine, but he stood his ground resolutely.

"No?" The dark knight uttered at last, taking a menacing step forward. "And who are you to deny _me_, draenei?"

His glaring eyes narrowed as his voice grew chill and hard. "You are powerful, vindicator; you proved to me at Andorhal that the strength of an eredar still flows through those veins, but right now you are _nothing_ compared to me. Stand aside and I will spare your life, pathetic as it is."

"Please, Cyros," Ashira said softly from behind him, interjecting before the vindicator could reply. "Please do as he says." Her voice became imploring. "I don't-"

"You see?" The death knight interrupted, chuckling. "Even _she_ offers you wise counsel!"

The paladin shook his head, a sharp movement of stubborn determination.

"I won't let you take her," He repeated firmly, raising his warhammer for the inevitable combat. "If you want her so badly, then step forward and let us end this."

"Brave words!" The death knight snarled as he raised his morningstar, spinning it in slow circles above his head. "But I've heard such emptiness echo across countless battlefields before. You fool! I would've let you keep your miserable life, but now not only will you die, I will raise your shattered corpse to be my servant until the end of time!"

"Then I have only one final question," Cyros said through gritted teeth. "What is your name, if you can even remember it?"

"My name?" The death knight repeated the question haltingly, as if confused, and he hesitated for a long moment. But then his eyes flared brighter. "You may address me as-"

"_Duke Greythar_," Ashira whispered, her voice filled with dread.

The name froze the vindicator in place as surely as if he'd been turned to stone. His eyes widened in shock.

_That name..._

Cyros had taken the opportunity during his training in Ironforge to read some of the texts from the Eastern Kingdoms' Church of the Holy Light regarding the Second War against the Orc Horde. Gravely he had taken in the bloody tales and first-hand chronicles of terror and slaughter garnered from soldiers, commanders, and stout-hearted villagers that had survived the terrible war that had driven the dwarves of Ironforge back into their fortress-city and almost overwhelmed the combined forces of the Grand Alliance. The savage greenskins had butchered the peoples of this new world as ruthlessly as they had Cyros' own years earlier.

However, a few of the scrolls chronicling events from that war had been written by Archbishop Alonsus Faol himself, founder of the Order of the Silver Hand. And in them he had written detailed accounts of the orcs' perversions of Stormwind's noble and valiant knights using the black sorceries of forbidden necromancy, unspeakable acts that had horrified and disgusted the vindicator.

_That name was-_

With a harsh echoing roar, Greythar charged forward in a rush that almost caught Cyros off-guard. His morningstar was a deadly blur of movement as it was whirled around and then sent lashing out towards the paladin's head. The vindicator barely managed to duck in time, feeling the rush of wind on the back of his neck as the obsidian head swept by in its deadly arc. Reacting instinctively, he lunged forward to smash his warhammer into the death knight's left side, buckling the armor plate and sending Greythar staggering backwards, away from Ashira.

"Hold still and your end shall be swift!" The death knight cursed, even as he was forced to whirl around to renew his attack.

Weakened by the infection consuming his body, the paladin found himself driven steadily back by the ferocity of his enemy's assault. The morningstar flicked out again and again, the death knight wielding the weapon as easily as if it was a schoolmaster's switch. It was all Cyros could do to keep his guard up, beating aside the questing obsidian head with increasingly frantic strikes of his warhammer. And still the morningstar continued to tear at him like a whip, drawing blood from a half dozen gouges across the paladin's body. Cyros soon realized with mounting anger that Greythar was merely playing with him, a lion toying with a mouse.

With a dull crunch, the long hafts of the opposing weapons slammed into each other, locking the two combatants in close.

"You cannot win, draenei!" Greythar snarled in supreme fury as he leaned in, his red eyes boring into those of the vindicator.

Unwilling and unable to waste his breath on words, Cyros gritted his teeth, pitting all of his flagging strength against the death knight's seemingly limitless reserves of energy. The powerful muscles in his arms, chest, and shoulders bulged beneath his dark blue flesh, tendons and veins swelling like cords across his body. But it was like struggling against an immovable wall. Dripping sweat stung his eyes and his warhammer quivered violently in his hands, feeling as if the adamantite haft would snap in two at any moment.

With a mighty heave, the death knight sent Cyros stumbling back into a tree, the vindicator's arms flailing ineffectually to maintain his balance. Greythar laughed coldly, raising his morningstar high for the final blow.

At that moment, a fireball exploded against his armored back, spoiling his strike. Growling, the enraged death knight turned to see Ashira standing barely ten strides away.

The blood elf's face was pale and drawn from shock and blood loss, and she wavered unsteadily on her feet. Hair tangled and unkempt, perspiration gleaming on her face and neck, her trembling right arm was outstretched towards the death knight, a stark contrast to her blood-stained left arm that hung limply at her side. Though gasping for breath at her exertion, a smirk of defiance still tugged on her lips as she beheld the result of the spell.

"A worthy effort, but futile, _wench_," The death knight hissed. He raised an armored fist, sickly green energies coiling around it as he prepared to send her into oblivion.

A deep gruff voice suddenly roared out from the darkness.

"_For Khaz Modan!_"

The crouching ghouls immediately sprang into the dark with bestial howls of rage as the skeletal warriors turned as well, marching silently into the forest. The screeching of the ghouls soon mixed with the clash of weapons and the deep roaring battle-cries of dwarves. Blazing golden light randomly illuminated the struggle at times as holy energies were unleashed upon the undead, shadowy figures seen struggling in the brief periods of illumination.

"For the Alliance!" Cyros shouted hoarsely, his throat dry and lungs burning. But still he continued to call out to let their unexpected rescuers know friends were near and in need of aid. "For the-!"

The death knight whirled back around with a snarl of rage, the edge of his heavy shield smashing across the vindicator's face. Stunned by the vicious blow, the draenei could only stagger back, collapsing numbly onto his knees as his warhammer slipped from his nerveless grasp. He raised trembling hands to his bleeding face, a deep gash splitting his flesh from left temple down across his cheek to his upper lip. He could hardly focus, his head thundering with pain, stars flashing before his eyes.

"And now," Greythar spat out contemptuously. "I'll take what I came for."

Unable to form a single coherent word of protest or denial, Cyros could only reach out in desperation, grasping at the death knight even as he turned to stride towards Ashira. The vindicator's clawing hands met only with empty air as he fell onto his stomach, still trying to clear his head.

"Ash-Ashira," He whispered hoarsely as he began struggling to crawl across the clearing to her.

The blood elf mage managed to stare boldly at the death knight as he approached, her right arm dropping limply to her side. Her legs shook with the effort to keep her standing and only iron determination kept her from crumpling to the ground in exhaustion. She had nothing left, no more strength to resist with.

Greythar gestured sharply with his right fist and a tentacle, formed from a darkness so pure it seemed to drink in the light, lanced out from his armored chest. It curled around Ashira's throat, lifting her bodily off the ground and dragging her right up to those glaring red eyes.

Choking, gasping, the mage still tried to meet his unblinking gaze, her face twisted into a rictus of agony at being suspended in the air, legs twitching feebly.

"Defiant to the end, I see," The death knight said, his whispering voice seeming to echo hollowly from the depths of his hood. "You are much like Sylvanas was when we invaded your precious forest. Yes," Greythar mused, his eyes narrowing in recollection. "You and she have much in common..." Abruptly his eyes flashed brighter as if he had to shake himself from his brief reverie. "Perhaps I will see that you join the accursed Banshee Queen in undeath!"

Greythar gestured again with his right hand and the black tentacle separated from his chest. It split down into multiple fragments that expanded and then joined together to weave an intricate cage around the blood elf. He was just beginning to ready the spell that would transport them away when an armored hand unexpectedly seized his left ankle.

"What's this?" The death knight growled, tearing his leg from the grip and turning to confront this new threat. He glanced down to see Cyros on his stomach, his right hand outstretched.

"Ah, the vindicator!" He laughed cruelly. "So, still some fight left in you after all?"

The paladin managed to raise his head awkwardly to stare up at Greythar through his good right eye, his left swollen shut and covered in a half-mask of blood.

"_Let her go!_" Cyros rasped as he tried to push himself up onto his hands and knees.

"I think not," The death knight replied, chuckling harshly. "And _you_ are certainly in no position to be dictating terms, draenei."

Still laughing, the Black Duke stepped away and launched an almost lazy kick into the paladin's right side. The force of the blow tossed Cyros onto his back with a ragged scream, the armor plating buckled and torn. He clutched at his ribs in agony.

The death knight raised a foot, pressing his boot firmly down against the helpless vindicator's throat, slowly choking the life from him. Gasping and sputtering for breath, Cyros could only push weakly on Greythar's ankle.

"_Please_..." Came a pleading whisper from behind the death knight.

"_Please stop..._"

The death knight glanced back to see Ashira had fallen to her knees in her magical prison, her right hand clenched so hard around one of the black bars her knuckles had whitened. She was gazing at the writhing paladin with a horrible anguish, tears streaming from her green eyes. For a moment, Greythar could only stare at her. His eyes flickered as something seemed to stir within, but then it was gone. He lifted his boot from Cyros' neck and strode back over to the trapped blood elf.

Before the death knight could reply, he glanced into the woods, sensing abruptly it was time to leave. His forces were on the verge of being utterly destroyed and it would be only moments before he too was attacked.

"He will live for now," Greythar snarled, turning back to Ashira. "But _you_," He promised grimly, pointing a finger at the blood elf. "You will wish that I had killed you."

Half-blinded, his vision dimming, Cyros could only watch helplessly as shadows swirled up to engulf both the death knight and his prisoner. For an instant, he and Ashira locked gazes. Despite her tears, her glowing eyes were warm and affectionate, and in that last moment the paladin thought he could hear her voice, a feathery caress in his mind.

_Shorel'aran..._

As the shadows faded away, the pair was gone.

"Ashira!" The vindicator cried out as darkness claimed him as well.


	7. Chapter 7

((Author's Note: Many thanks for the reviews, adding to Favorites, etc, that have taken place thus far! I'm glad most still reading this are at least somewhat enjoying my efforts.))

**Chapter Seven**

With a soft groan, Cyros awoke from unconsciousness for the second time in the past few days. For a moment, his glowing blue-white eyes flickered as he tried to clear his vision. Ashira's lovely face seemed to hover above him, gazing tenderly down. But as his eyesight swam into focus, the illusion abruptly vanished, leaving him staring at a smooth uncaring stone wall.

"Ashira?" The paladin called out as he jerked up, half in question, half in denial. He fell back in the next instant as raw pain seared through his body, barely able to use one arm to brace himself against the straw-filled mattress as he groaned. The other hand rose to his forehead as the pounding in his head redoubled.

"Please try to relax, vindicator," The strong, rich voice of a woman said to his right, clouded with concern. "You're safe now."

Cyros glanced over to see a dwarf priestess garbed in white and gold sitting on a wooden chair near his bedside. Her raiment was beautifully tailored, short feathered wings adorning her shoulders, her hood raised to conceal her face, while a sparkling halo of holy magic danced above her head.

Before he could reply, a new voice boomed from the open doorway, deep and rough, though familiar all the same.

"Ah, I see our draenei brother has finally awoken! You're fortunate we sensed the undead gathering to the south on our return from the ruins of Quel'Danil Lodge."

Cyros looked to the door, finally putting a face to the voice of Kael Stonecrusher, the Ironforge expedition's paladin leader.

Clad in simple leather clothes of brown and green, the squat and powerful dwarf strode into the room, boots thumping heavily against the carpeted stone floor. Piercing blue eyes regarded the vindicator with both respect and curiosity. His nose was large and pointed, his skin lightly tanned, and his long brown hair was pulled back away from his forehead in a ponytail secured with a leather thong. His thick, bushy beard was neatly trimmed, but was also shorter than the average dwarf's.

"And so, vindicator," Kael continued, folding his burly arms across his chest. "Now that you're conscious, perhaps you'd like to explain where you've been for the past several days."

"I..." Cyros began, glancing down as he paused for a moment to frame his thoughts. "As you know, I journeyed north to Andorhal to investigate the source of the undead attacks against the Wildhammers. I found a Scourge army gathering there and its leader, a death knight."

"A death knight," Kael repeated slowly, his bushy eyebrows furrowing in a frown of skepticism. "And what made you go to Andorhal? How did you know the Scourge were there?"

"I didn't," The vindicator replied, shrugging as he carefully shook his head. "But I thought if there was a single source of the attacks against the Wildhammers, it had to be at Andorhal. Those ruins are well-known by the Grand Alliance to have a fortified School of Necromancy buried beneath them. Though previous reports stated the Alliance hasn't seen undead armies mass at Andorhal in years, I decided to investigate nonetheless. But where's Ashira?" He asked, his voice growing more concerned. "What happened to her?"

Kael glanced at the priestess sitting next to Cyros' bed, raising an eyebrow in question.

"I don't recall seeing anyone else in the forest with you, vindicator," He said slowly. "Do you, Alaeria?"

The priestess shook her head, but it was a hesitant gesture, her eyebrows furrowed in a questioning frown.

"No, but there was _something_ I know we all sensed in that clearing. It was some lingering evil, as if a great force of darkness had just departed."

"He took her then!" Cyros growled through gritted teeth, his blue hands clenching into tight fists.

Throwing aside the wool blanket, he swung his legs out over the side of the bed and tried to rise to his hooves. Intense weakness immediately flashed through him and he collapsed, landing with a heavy thud against the stone floor. His back scraped against the rough wood of the bed frame and pain stabbed from his tail as it was twisted beneath him. He tried to shake his head to clear it as a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm him.

The priestess was at his side in the next moment.

"You're not going anywhere for now, Cyros," Alaeria said firmly, placing a hand gently on his left shoulder. "You need food and rest. It took the combined powers of four of us to cleanse you of the infection and heal your other injuries. Your body's exhausted and needs time to recover."

Though at last absently noting the fresh linen clothes he was wearing and the fact his body was now clean and unsullied from days of travel, Cyros still shook his head stubbornly as he struggled to push himself up.

"But that death knight - Greythar - if I don't find Ashira, he'll..." He slammed a hard fist against the floor. "I have to save her!"

The vindicator heard a sharp intake of breath from the priestess and suddenly realized her fingernails were now digging hard into his shoulder as her grip tightened instinctively. He glanced up to see Alaeria had frozen in shock and even Kael was leaning forward, his eyes wide and mouth open in surprise. The dwarf paladin was the first to visibly recover, his jaw shutting with an audible clack of teeth as he shook his head slightly.

"Cyros," He said slowly, as if every word was carefully chosen. "Are you telling us the one you fought - that death knight you encountered at Andorhal - was _Duke Greythar_?"

The draenei nodded stiffly in grim confirmation.

"It was," Cyros replied. "Even Ashira knew who he was."

"Trevor Greythar," Alaeria whispered, a tremor of undeniable fear running through her voice. "The Black Duke... One of the first... We'd heard a few unconfirmed reports over the years ever since the end of the Second War about a darkness stalking the Eastern Kingdoms, but never imagined it could be _him_... He was thought to be dead, killed by General Turalyon during the final days of the War."

"What I fought in the forest and at Andorhal seemed strong and vigorous to me," Cyros said bitterly before lapsing into silence. It was only then that he managed to shove himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his right hand pressing against his still tender left side, the holy energies having almost literally burned the infection clean from his body.

"If it _is_ Greythar, what does this Ashira have to do with him?" Kael demanded. "Who is she anyways?"

The vindicator lowered his head, his eyes closing in memory.

"Ashira is a blood elf mage," He said quietly, only reluctantly revealing the shocking truth to his allies. "She-"

Kael took a step forward, his arms tensing at his sides.

"A blood elf!"

The dwarf's eyes narrowed as he grimaced in disgust and suspicion. "What were you doing with one of those arrogant, treacherous, pointy-eared-!"

"_She saved me at Andorhal!_" Cyros shouted, unable to restrain himself, his voice erupting with volcanic fury. He whirled to face the dwarf, almost lurching to his hooves. His eyes fairly blazed as his tail lashed about. "She risked her own life to save me from death! Death and worse! And I failed her back there in the forest! I..."

His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. "I failed her and she was taken by that _monster_..."

Kael Stonecrusher was visibly taken aback at the draenei's rage, the paladin's large hands raised as if to physically ward off the vindicator's sudden anger. Even Alaeria had drawn back sharply in surprise and alarm.

At that moment, there came a steady clanking of metal against stone from the hallway outside, as if a heavily armored person approached the door. Another dwarf entered the room, this one fully armored in black and gold plate-mail, including angular helmet, and armed with a sheathed broadsword at his left side. He immediately came to attention and saluted Kael.

The paladin commander returned the salute with flawless precision.

"What is it, Drex Steelshaper?"

"Sir," Drex replied, his deep, rough voice echoing hollowly from his helm. "A messenger arrived from Chillwind Camp only a little while ago with urgent news for High Thane Falstad. I thought you should hear it at once."

"And what does he report?" Kael asked sharply.

"Light's Hope Chapel in the Eastern Plaguelands has been completely overrun by an army of undead. The Argent Dawn forces are in full retreat south towards Tyr's Hand. The Dawn hopes to combine with the Scarlet Crusaders to retake the Chapel and have requested the aid of the Wildhammer Clan for the battle. High Thane Falstad has assembled his war council and asked for your presence and that of the draenei as well."

Kael glanced at Cyros in surprise and the vindicator steadily met the dwarf's piercing, judgemental gaze. After a moment, the dwarf paladin nodded firmly, as if satisfied with what he saw, and turned back to Drex.

"Inform the High Thane we will attend him at once."

- - - - -

_So__** these**__ are the renowned warriors of the Argent Dawn in the Eastern Plaguelands_, Greythar thought with sneering contempt. His eyes flared brighter as his morningstar whipped forward to tear a dwarf's helmeted head from his shoulders**. **

_**Pathetic**__._

All around the death knight, his ghouls, skeleton soldiers, and other animated dead were overwhelming the last of the defenders of Light's Hope Chapel, swarming over them like hideous, pestilent ants. The rest of the Argent Dawn's force had already retreated, leaving behind this rear guard to buy the withdrawal more time. Even as the death knight looked on, the gurgling abomination split a screaming human footman in two from chest to crotch with one of its cleavers.

His necromancer hobbled painfully up to him, leaning heavily on his crooked staff.

"The Chapel is yours, my lord," He rasped, his voice trembling with fearful respect. "The remaining Argent Dawn have fled south towards Tyr's Hand."

"Cowards!" The Black Duke spat, glancing around. "They're of no consequence. Have my army secure this area and then begin raising the dead. Perhaps these Argent Dawn will prove more useful in my service than they did in life. Send the blood elf to the Chapel."

"As you command, my lord," The necromancer whispered, groveling before the death knight, but his words fell on deaf ears, Greythar already striding away.

The Black Duke marched through the smashed open doors of Light's Hope Chapel, ignoring the pools of blood and the dozen corpses lying sprawled out on the stone floor or draped over the wooden pews. His glowing eyes at last settled on what he was seeking, a stout wooden door set behind a blessed golden altar to the Holy Light at the far side of the main chamber. Striding up to it, he beheld the door was secured on the outside by strong locks of black iron. Two furious blows from his morningstar reduced the stout portal to mere kindling. He stepped through the ruined door, descending down the wide stone steps beyond into the dark catacombs that had been dug beneath the Chapel.

As he made his way into the largest of the burial chambers, deep beneath the Chapel's foundations, he saw on all sides, save the entrance, there were plain coffins of stone, twelve in all. Each contained a fallen hero of the Argent Dawn, cut down in combat against the Scourge in the Plaguelands. The death knight's eyes narrowed in scorn. The Argent Dawn believed the souls of their so-called heroes watched over their never-ending battle against the Scourge and aided them in their struggle.

What contemptible nonsense.

Bright flickering firelight from behind Greythar cast stark shadows across the interior of the chamber, throwing everything into sharp clarity. He turned silently to see Ashira standing in the entrance, her arms bound securely behind her. Four armored skeletal warriors escorted her, two bearing crackling torches.

"Welcome, blood elf," The death knight said, bowing in a mockery of courtly manners. He gestured and the skeletons shoved Ashira forward, driving her across the room to the far wall and then roughly spun her around to face Greythar.

"I must apologize none of the high elf mages from Quel'Danil Lodge are here to join you," The death knight continued, his voice fairly dripping with sarcasm and loathing. "However, as you discovered, there unfortunately were no survivors."

"What do you want with me?" The mage asked, refusing to rise to the bait, her voice calm and even despite her dire predicament. The blood elf still couldn't stop from glaring in fury at the death knight. She strained against her bonds briefly, muscles trembling, before subsiding into seething helplessness.

"At the moment, it's not so much what I want as what _you_ want," Greythar replied, chuckling harshly. "What you _crave_..."

Ashira's face flushed and her green eyes lowered, unable to meet the death knight's taunting stare.

"I don't know what you're talking about," She whispered firmly, but she couldn't keep the quaver from entering her voice.

Securing his morningstar to his waist, Greythar crossed the room with long strides, his armored boots thumping heavily against the stone. His right hand seized the blood elf by her jaw, forcing her head up and her eyes to look upon him.

"I see it in your eyes," The death knight said slowly, deliberately. "The craving, the _need_... How long has it been since you quenched your desire? You haven't had a chance to, have you? You and that draenei have been traveling and fighting for what? Over two days now? That's a long time for your kind to go without absorbing any magical energy. Even with the restored strength of the Sunwell, your powers are now almost completely drained. For a mage such as you, I can't imagine what it must feel like-"

Ashira twisted violently from his grasp, spitting in his face.

"Enough words!" She snapped furiously. "Kill me or do whatever it is you came here to do!"

The Black Duke laughed; a spine-chilling sound.

"Blood elf, at the moment, your death is the least of my desires. But fear not, for I have brought sustenance for the starving."

Greythar turned and barked out a harsh command. For a moment, there was silence, but then a dreadful snarl was heard accompanied by the sounds of feet scuffling against the cold stone floor. Ashira's eyes widened in fear and shock as she saw what entered the burial chamber, the breath catching in her throat with an audible gasp.

In size and shape, it was roughly a boar-sized dog, but that was where all similarity ended. Two long horns extended from its muscular shoulders, curved and wickedly sharp. Hard scales covered its body, the bright crimson color stressed by splotches of black along its sides, and dark spines, like bristly hair, studded its back. Its legs were short and powerful, each foot split into three bony claws. Its mouth was long and lean, filled with razor-sharp fangs that dripped saliva. Atop its back were two long and thick tentacle arms, each ending in a sucker-like mouth. Every movement suggested a vicious predator and skilled hunter.

As the felhound advanced slowly on the helpless blood elf, it growled deeply in eager anticipation as if already savoring the meal to come, the two tentacles on its back straining towards Ashira.

"This felhound hasn't fed on anything magical in days, much like you," The death knight explained, his eyes flaring brighter. "I doubt your life energy - devoid almost entirely of magic at the moment - will make more than a tiny morsel to allay its terrible hunger. No matter; that's still better than nothing. After all, beggars cannot be choosers."

"_No,_" Ashira whispered in horror, backing away from the oncoming demon until the wall and the coffins behind her prevented any further retreat. "No, please..."

"I offer you a choice, blood elf," Greythar continued grimly as he walked over to her, roughly cutting away her bonds with a rusty dagger. "You can either allow the demon to devour you, body and soul, or you can drain the fel-energy it possesses to assuage your own thirst."

Ashira's mouth moved silently in protest, the words caught in her throat, as she raised her freed hands in a pathetic defense. The thirst was so strong within her, the need...

But she _couldn't_. Not from a demon.

Before the restoration of the Sunwell following Kil'jaeden's banishment from Azeroth, Ashira had chosen to drain mana from the simple creatures of the Twisting Nether - the mindless parasites and predators infesting the world between worlds - and thus limiting the amount of fel-energy to just enough in order to quench the addiction all blood elves suffered from, even to this day. But to draw pure fel-energy from one of the Legion...

It would damn her forevermore.

The blood elf licked her lips with a dry tongue, her hands repeatedly opening and closing into tight fists. Her body trembled. Ashira's connection to the Sunwell was still weak and tenuous, with too much time spent journeying through far-distant lands, and so she could practically taste the fel-energy emanating from the demon. It was all she could do to restrain herself...

"I know you want it," Greythar said, lowering his head to hers, his whispering voice crawling through her ears insidiously with awful persuasion. "Why continue to resist? The magical power before you is _yours_ for the taking! You need only reach out and seize it!"

Before Ashira could even think of a reply, the felhound sprang at her with a snarl. She screamed as its heavy weight bore her down to the hard floor, its tentacles lashing out to grasp at her shoulders, adhering to her smooth skin like leeches. The blood elf screamed again horribly as the felhound began to drain her life energy.

The Black Duke watched silently with amused detachment. If Ashira died here and now, it would be unfortunate, but not disastrous. She'd have proven too weak and he would merely have to find others that could fulfill this final task. But as he turned to leave the chamber, the felhound suddenly shrieked in agony behind him.

The death knight turned back around to see Ashira gripping the demon's two tentacles, blue-white fire outlining her slim hands. She slowly pulled the tentacles free of her shoulders with relentless strength, leaving bloody wounds where they had been attached. Her green eyes were narrowed in fury as she pushed the writhing demon away from her and rose slowly to her feet, still grasping its tentacles. Though the felhound must have weighed at least twice as much as her, the blood elf held it up easily, its back paws scrabbling weakly against the floor. Its heavy forepaws tore uselessly at her arms and chest, the bloody gashes healing within moments.

As Greythar looked on, the demon soon shriveled into a dry, limp husk and Ashira easily tossed its lifeless corpse aside. She looked up at him, her emerald-green eyes blazing with renewed power, her face twisted into a savage expression of barely restrained rage and hate. Bright green light flashed down her arms and torso, momentarily distending her veins, the demonic fel-energy coursing through her body.

"_More_..." Ashira found herself hissing through clenched teeth.

Even as the word was forced from her lips, the tiny shred of her soul that understood clearly what had just happened screamed silently in condemnation, horrified at the terrible depths to which the blood elf had now fallen.

_You will wish that I had killed you..._

The death knight's triumphant laughter echoed through the dark corridors.

- - - - -

As leader of the Wildhammer Clan, High Thane Falstad Dragonreaver had little use for pomp and ceremony in his position. The Wildhammers were regarded by many within the Grand Alliance as feral and barbaric in comparison to their more civilized cousins, the mountain dwarves of Ironforge. And there could be no denying the Wildhammers enjoyed a good fight more than anyone else, save perhaps the orcs, always willing to have a bash over almost anything, whether to settle an ancient unresolved grievance all the way down to which ale tasted better. The High Thane's relatively small throne room high within Aerie Peak clearly reflected this difference in culture.

As Cyros entered the throne room, he observed it was austerely furnished, as one might expect of a rugged warrior-king. The walls were mostly bare gray and brown stone, but several finely weaved tapestries were scattered across them, depicting hard-fought battles from both recent times and the distant past. Ancient weapons were placed in several racks along the walls. Their blades and edges were still sharp and gleaming in the flickering light cast by burning torches set in iron sconces blackened with ash from long use. The draenei beheld the far wall had several large wooden shutters for multiple windows carved into the stone. They were currently closed though and covered with thick animal furs to keep out the chill of a cold rain that had begun to fall only a short time ago.

The High Thane himself was standing near a wide round table of stone that was covered with various maps and scrolls, and placed in the center of the throne room. The dwarf leader, though looking more civilized than the other dwarves clustered around the table, still cut a fine martial figure. Though leaner and a bit taller than his fellows, the High Thane was still powerfully built with the widest shoulders and thickest arms Cyros had ever seen on a dwarf. He wore a simple uniform of brown leather with plain boots, padding outlining his muscular chest, shoulders, arms, and thighs, suggesting armor. His face was hawk-like, predatory, and the slightly tangled mane of brown hair ringing his otherwise bald head was roughly trimmed shoulder-length.

As his gaze moved from Falstad back to Kael Stonecrusher, Cyros could easily see the differences between the mountain dwarves and their surface-dwelling brethren just by comparing the High Thane and the paladin. The dwarves of Ironforge had delved deep into the stone and earth, forming a society and culture based around their strengths: solid, enduring, and stoic. In contrast, the Wildhammer dwarves were closer to the natural elements, the untamed wilderness, forming a sometimes volatile, yet powerful when united society. It was a hardy culture revolving around fierce independence tempered by a deeply rooted, almost shamanistic wisdom; a culture in which self-sacrifice and placing others before yourself were both emphasized daily.

Falstad glanced up as Cyros and Kael entered, and the vindicator found himself staring into hard, piercing brown eyes. The High Thane spoke as he walked around the table to greet them.

"Welcome back to Aerie Peak, vindicator," He rumbled, clasping wrists with the draenei, his firm grip that of a warrior born. "It's good to see you're in one piece. After your disappearance to the north, we feared the worst. And welcome to you as well, Kael Stonecrusher," He continued, clapping a hand down on the dwarf paladin's left shoulder, almost jolting him off his booted feet. "My thanks to the both of you for attending this meeting."

Kael nodded stiffly in formal politeness.

"Of course, High Thane. We thank you for allowing us to attend."

"Now," Falstad rumbled. "To business. As you both know," He continued as he walked back over to the stone table with Cyros and Kael following closely behind. "Undead have attacked Light's Hope Chapel in the Eastern Plaguelands." He pointed at one of the larger and wider maps, beautifully drawn with wondrous detail, before folding his arms across his chest. "The Argent Dawn's messenger reported the Scourge struck from the west, crossing the Infectious Scar without any warning. Most of the Dawn's forces surrounding the Chapel managed to band together and fight their way clear, though some volunteered to remain behind and hold the gods-damned bastards for as long as they could."

The High Thane nodded instinctively in approval as he spoke, the actions he was describing striking a chord in his fighting heart. He glanced up at Kael and Cyros.

"Nevertheless," Falstad said, pointing at the map again. "Light's Hope Chapel remains in the hands of the Scourge. No one knows why the undead have only now attacked that outpost in such great force, but the Argent Dawn have asked for the aid of the Wildhammer Clan. After careful consideration, I've agreed to give it. The Argent Dawn is an honorable group with noble ideals and so we will help them reclaim their Chapel. Besides, it's been far too long since I've cracked some undead skulls," The High Thane finished, chuckling as he slammed his right fist into his other meaty hand.

"I understand you'll be going as well then?" Cyros asked politely. "Are you sure that's wise, being the leader of your Clan?"

Falstad could only stare up at the towering vindicator in disbelief for a long moment. The other Wildhammer dwarves in the throne room seemed just as shocked and a few of the guards even bristled with ill-concealed outrage.

"Tread carefully, paladin," The High Thane warned in mock resentment after he'd recovered, shaking a thick index finger at the draenei. "Suggesting a Wildhammer not mix it up in a scrap is asking for trouble the likes of which you've never seen."

Cyros smiled and bowed formally to the High Thane.

"My apologies," He said eloquently. "As you know, I'm new to your homeland and thus still unadjusted to your ways."

Falstad laughed heartily in genuine amusement.

"And if you keep that fancy talk going, draenei," He promised, grinning. "I'll meet you in the pits myself."

Behind them, Kael coughed pointedly.

"High Thane, you were explaining about Light's Hope Chapel?"

"Aye, I was, that's right... Back to business then. I've agreed to send two companies to meet the Argent Dawn at Tyr's Hand. That's the most I can spare from my army at the moment, what with the trolls getting bolder about their raids across our borders. The Dawn's leader - Commander Eligor Dawnbringer - is hoping his relations with the Scarlet Crusaders will prove useful and create a combined force to fight the Scourge. Or so it says in this here missive," Falstad said, waving a piece of parchment on which had been scrawled black letters in a hasty script. "But regardless of the Crusaders' decision, the Wildhammers will march on the Chapel with the Argent Dawn and drive back the Scourge holding it.

"Now the reason I asked both of you here," Falstad continued, gesturing at Cyros and Kael. "Was because I heard you two were involved in a bit of a fight yesterday. And," The High Thane added grimly. "Because the Argent Dawn reported a death knight led the attack on their Chapel. If either of you know anything about what we're up against, I need to hear it."

Both the draenei and dwarf paladins glanced at each other in the same moment. Kael nodded slightly for Cyros to speak first.

"High Thane," The vindicator began. "I cannot say why the Scourge attacked Light's Hope Chapel, nor do I know what strength they have, but I do know who that death knight is. I have fought against him twice now. It's Trevor Greythar."

"_Duke Greythar?_" Falstad hissed in surprise, his features furrowing into a concerned frown. The four advisors of his war council, including Colgar Stone, the stern captain of the High Thane's personal guard, all muttered gravely amongst themselves.

"The same," Cyros replied, nodding. "And I can assure you the duke is no less mighty an enemy than he was described as over twenty years ago during your Second War..." The draenei couldn't stop the flush of shame that brightened his cheeks, his jaw tightening.

The High Thane didn't notice though, staring at the maps and the rough strategic plans he and his councilors had written down.

"This is something I didn't anticipate," Falstad said slowly, as if to himself. "A death knight would have been one thing, but the Black Duke... It might as well be the grand high goat-lover Arthas himself waiting for us at Light's Hope! Nevertheless," He continued solemnly, clenching his hands into tight fists, tendons cracking dully. "I have pledged the Wildhammers' support to the Argent Dawn and I will _not_ back down from an oath sworn in good faith." He glanced up at Kael Stonecrusher. "Kael, as I said before when you first arrived, I'm honored King Bronzebeard sent you to assist my Clan, but now I must request you and yours to step beyond your original duty."

Stonecrusher raised a hand, shaking his head.

"High Thane," He said firmly. "We were sent here to protect your people from the undead and to seek out the source of their attacks." The paladin gestured at Cyros. "Thanks to the vindicator here, we now know _who_ our true enemy is and _where_ he is as well. We will not stand back and let the Wildhammer Clan face this threat alone. We are with you, to whatever end may come."

Falstad's lips pulled back into a wolfish smile as his advisors all roared their approval at the paladin's words, clapping Stonecrusher heavily on the back.

"I had no doubt!" The High Thane shouted, his eyes widening as the prospect of imminent battle seized him, clasping wrists with Kael in a bone-crushing warrior's grip. "It's been too long since we fought beside our mountain cousins!"

Falstad snapped up an arm to point at the guard captain standing across from him.

"Assemble the companies, Colgar! We march at dawn! _To war_!" He roared, slamming a heavy fist down on the table and his advisors and personal guards raised their gruff voices in exultant battle-cries.

Caught up in the fervor, the dwarves' deep voices echoing in his ears, Cyros' own lips skinned back in a feral snarl as he slowly raised his hands, squeezing them into tight fists until his knuckles cracked. Adrenaline surged through him, his tense muscles visibly quivering. It was all he could do to restrain himself from screaming as well in rage and hate.

_Prepare yourself, Greythar! You will __**pay**__ for what you have done! _

_By the Light, I swear it!_


	8. Chapter 8

((Author's Note: I've been away for a small vacation (just got married and coupled that with a slight honeymoon :) ), but I am back at home now, regretfully (she and I live in different states at the moment). Here is the next chapter for those still interested. I hope you enjoy!))

**Chapter Eight**

The small army of the Wildhammers marched to battle.

The two hundred dwarves, accompanied by twenty elite, gryphon-riding windwarriors, made steady progress through the Hinterlands. They began their journey by heading north-east along the mountains, moving towards the Eastern Plaguelands. The three troll tribes that were spread across the forested lands to the east and south stayed well clear of the heavily armed force, having not seen the Wildhammer dwarves move in so great a number for a few years now. They had no wish to draw the ire of such a large force down upon their unfortified villages and ancient temple-cities, and therefore remained within their claimed territories, watching with tense wariness, but not offering battle.

In the van were High Thane Falstad, closely guarded by his personal escort, as well as Cyros, Kael Stonecrusher, Alaeria, and the other paladins and priests of the Ironforge contingent. The windwarriors flew overhead, scouting, patrolling, and running flank guard, the riders assuming most of the duties of traditional cavalry in wartime.

The army passed by the burned out, gutted ruins of Quel'Danil Lodge in grim silence, many of the dwarf warriors assuring their fallen high elf allies in solemn whispers that they would be avenged. Seeing the collapsed buildings and scorched walls were harsh reminders that even after the end of the Third War, terrible darkness still blighted the world. It needed to be rooted out, purged with flame and steel, and the Wildhammers tightened their grips on their weapons. Soon, one of those sources of shadow would be destroyed utterly.

The army pressed relentlessly onward, marching directly through the troll ruins of Agol'watha. Though attacked several times by large groups of the foul, predatory living sludges that had overrun the former temple, the dwarves were unwavering in their advance. They dispatched the monstrosities with brutal ease, hacking and chopping apart their green gelatinous bodies. After crossing the river however, the army immediately swung north to head directly into the mountains bordering the Plague Lands to the north. Though fearless and iron-willed in battle, Falstad nevertheless remained a leader that was also tempered by a dwarf's innate pragmatism and thus he was unwilling to risk a confrontation with the green dragons guarding the Seradane Portal to the north-east by passing too close. The mountains would add several long days to their journey to Tyr's Hand, but it was better that than risk the wrath of Ysera's Green Dragon Flight.

Though the entire army was mounted, the small force encountered rough terrain and stormy weather as it crossed the mountain range. This added additional time to their journey.

While Cyros knew the army was moving as quickly as it could, it seemed to him they nevertheless were crawling through the mountains at a snail's pace. Throughout the march, he tried hard not to dwell upon Ashira's well-being. The vindicator tried to reassure himself she was all right, but always his thoughts returned to her, for he knew deep down that the death knight would not have taken her unless he had some sinister intent. Regardless of anything else, it remained _his_ fault she had been captured. Cyros' fists would tighten and his tail would curl in tightly whenever he dwelt on this lingering shame. The vindicator vowed silently that he would atone for his failure by personally destroying Duke Greythar and casting what remained of his now twisted soul back down into the Abyss.

Several more days passed by before the Wildhammer army finally descended from the mountains and entered the Eastern Plaguelands by Lake Mereldar. Traveling further east, slaughtering any wandering undead that crossed its path, the army soon glimpsed the thick gray walls of Tyr's Hand looming over the blighted, mist-enshrouded lands. Camped in tents before the forbidding fortifications were the remnants of the Argent Dawn from Light's Hope Chapel.

Night had fallen by the time the Wildhammer camp was established with overlapping guard patrols. After the mounts and gryphons were watered and fed, Falstad led a small group over to the Argent Dawn camp. Cyros, Kael, Colgar Stone, and a few handpicked personal guards accompanied the High Thane. They were soon directed to Eligor Dawnbringer's command post by respectful sentries. However, as they drew near the large tent, they could hear a rough, commanding voice shouting in protest and argument.

"Huh," Falstad grunted, glancing at Kael and Cyros. "I guess we picked the wrong time to arrive."

- - - - -

Duke Greythar stood in silent vigil within the darkened interior of Light's Hope Chapel, the silvery moonlight streaming in through the broken windows.

He was gazing up at a dusty and partly shattered stained glass window. Despite the damage and grime, the death knight could recognize plainly the exquisite craftsmanship, the loving care with which the artist had assembled the expertly carved pieces of colored glass. The window depicted Archbishop Alonsus Faol anointing some of the first paladins of the Silver Hand who knelt solemnly before him.

The Black Duke's glowing eyes flickered as they narrowed. Even now, years later, he couldn't help but wonder, had things been different, had he survived Stormwind's war against the Horde, would he have...?

_Could_ he have...?

His eyes blazed as the unquenchable fury seized him, shaking him as a dog would a kitten. Greythar clenched his right hand into a tight fist, raising the arm slowly, before bringing it down hard and furious upon a wooden pew. The powerful blow smashed the padded bench in two, sending jagged shards flying in all directions like a deadly hail. The sharp crack of shattering wood echoed loudly within the Chapel. The death knight's armored body trembled as the rage threatened to consume him.

That life was long gone, buried beneath years of dark malevolence coupled with near unrestrained fury. His fate had been decided the moment he had steeled himself to strike down the undead horror that was his own father, ripped from the earth by the orcs' dark sorceries. And now only his _hate_ remained, only his-

"Forgive my interruption, my lord," The necromancer whispered from the Chapel's open doors, bowing awkwardly.

Greythar whirled to face the shriveled man, raising an armored fist around which arcs of green energy coiled. For a moment, the death knight could only stand there, quivering with rage, longing to unleash raw destruction upon this mewling _nothing_ with delusions of power. The necromancer had frozen, well-aware that a single movement or word would seal his doom. At long last, Greythar reluctantly lowered his arm, the energies fading away.

"What is it?" The Black Duke hissed, the barely controlled wrath of a predator denied. "I told you I was _not_ to be disturbed!"

"News, my lord, news from the south," The necromancer replied quickly, his rasping voice filled with concern. "The Wildhammer dwarves are here. A small army of them has just reached Tyr's Hand."

The death knight straightened, folding his arms across his chest.

_**Finally...**__ It had certainly taken them long enough. Now, at last, the endgame could begin._

"Prepare the army," Greythar snarled. "I have no doubt they will try to distract my forces while their holy warriors assault this Chapel to reclaim it. If so, we will allow them to think their plan is successful. The moment their accursed paladins and priests approach the Chapel, we will surround them and slay them all."

"As you command, my lord," The necromancer whispered as he turned to limp away into the night.

The death knight turned back to the stained glass window, his eyes lingering on the kneeling paladins. His right fist snapped up without warning to blast the window into dozens of smoking and partially melted fragments with a single bolt of sickly green power.

_Your legacy will not avail you, Archbishop_, Greythar avowed grimly. _The Light __**cannot**__ stop me now. Soon there will only be Darkness. _

Already the blood elf's power had swollen to monstrous proportions.

All he needed now was the arrival of the final pawn in the game.

- - - - -

Commander Eligor Dawnbringer was a proud and stern man with eyes of the hardest storm cloud gray and smooth, shoulder-length brown hair brushed back away from his face. A short, but hooked nose gave his narrow visage a threatening hawk-like expression. The jagged scar that carved his right cheek, twisting his mouth into a permanent snarl, completed the effect. The scar served as a blatant reminder to anyone speaking with the Commander that the Argent Dawn's reputation for fighting against some of the most vicious and savage enemies of the Light was well-founded.

At the moment, Eligor was annoyed, which, in his moderately long career, roughly translated to livid.

"That's all you have to say?" He shouted into the face of the Scarlet Crusade's envoy. "That's _all_ you bring me? A long-winded 'no'?

Though the middle-aged soldier's face remained as hard and cool as ice, his two Crusader bodyguards tightened their hands on the hilts of their sheathed broadswords, their eyes narrowing in anger at the Commander's harshness. In response, Eligor's own two escort men-at-arms bristled visibly like war-dogs eager to be unleashed, their armored hands clenching tight around the thick hafts of their halberds.

The Scarlet Crusade emissary raised a gauntleted hand in placation, nodding curtly at the seething Commander.

"After long deliberations, the Scarlet Crusade hasn't issued a flat, unequivocal 'no' to your request, Commander Dawnbringer," He replied steadily. "We're merely asking for your patience and trying to point out that the timing is extremely poor. High General Abbendis asks you to understand her position. After longs months of near constant battle against the Scourge, as well as organizing far-reaching patrols and detailing escorts for those innocents that somehow end up in these cursed Plaguelands, our forces are weary and stretched very thin."

"And, somehow, this reply _doesn't_ translate to a 'no'?" Eligor growled, sarcasm and frustration lacing his voice.

"No, it doesn't," The envoy replied as he shook his head with a soft sigh. "And I'm sorry if you must see it that way.

"The Crusaders," He continued. "High General Abbendis in particular, are distressed to hear of the loss of Light's Hope Chapel to the Scourge. However, at this time, we cannot afford to support your campaign to retake the Chapel, especially given the fact you don't know for sure how many of the enemy there are. I must confess I'm not sure what the Argent Dawn has been doing as of late, but if you have been fighting the Scourge as often as we have, then I'm sure you can understand our caution."

"How _dare_ you!" Eligor hissed furiously, leaning down into the other man's face. "The Argent Dawn has fought against monstrosities the likes of which you can only glimpse in dark recesses of your nightmares!"

The envoy blinked at this, but then nodded slightly.

"Then I'm sure you can understand our position, Commander Dawnbringer. If you're willing to be patient, perhaps in a month we can prepare a combined force to attack-"

"Get out!" Eligor snarled, jerking a hand towards the command tent's entrance. "After all I've done to help our two forces work together against Kel'Thuzad and his abominations, _this_ is the answer I receive when we request military aid? I'll remember this well _and_ I'll make sure this is known amongst the rest of the Argent Dawn! Now don't waste any more of my time!"

Nodding stiffly in a curt bow, the Scarlet Crusade emissary departed the tent with his two escorts, the pair of Argent Dawn guards following the small group closely behind.

Eligor collapsed wearily into a foldable leather chair, running a hand through his graying hair. He glanced over at a corner of the tent where his fantastically ornate suit of gold and black plate armor hung. His eyes lingered on the stylized Books of Judgement, the twin sculpted friezes that formed the shoulder pauldrons.

Justice and righteousness, he thought grimly, were ideals few seemed to recognize these days. Nor was honor apparently, he added, his features furrowing into a hard glare.

After all this time, he sincerely thought High General Abbendis understood what the Argent Dawn was trying to accomplish in the world. It wasn't _just_ the Scourge that needed to be cleansed; it was all enemies of the Light.

_Or perhaps_, Eligor thought, his face darkening as he dwelt on the rumors of corruption, unprovoked attacks on innocents, and worse within the Crusade, _the Crusaders understand only __**too**__ well..._

"It seems your meeting didn't go quite as planned, Commander Dawnbringer," A deep voice said with a rumbling chuckle to his left.

Eligor glanced up to see Falstad Dragonreaver standing in his command tent's entrance, the hanging flaps flung away to either side. The opening was barely wide enough to encompass the dwarf's massive shoulders. The Commander rose quickly to his feet, nodding in a military bow.

"High Thane Falstad," He said respectfully. "My apologies; I wasn't aware you'd arrived. Thank you for being willing to assist the Argent Dawn." Eligor stepped forward, clasping wrists with the burly High Thane.

"The Wildhammer Clan regards the Argent Dawn as an honorable faction," Falstad replied, walking further into the tent as the Commander gestured for him to come inside. "And the Scourge always needs to be dealt with."

The High Thane took a seat across from the Commander as Colgar, Kael, and Cyros filed in behind him, the vindicator ducking his head to enter. Even though he tried to duck down further and even lean slightly over, Cyros' angular forehead plates still pressed firmly into the canvas roof. Between the three broad shouldered dwarves and the towering draenei, the once spacious command tent seemed suddenly rather cramped.

The vindicator steadily returned Eligor's piercing gaze as the Argent Dawn Commander looked the draenei up and down. He raised an eyebrow in question, but said nothing, instead turning his attention back to Falstad.

"I know you're not one for pleasantries, High Thane," Eligor stated seriously. "And frankly, neither am I. So now that you're here, I'll explain the current situation."

"Good," Falstad said, smiling as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "The sooner we finish this fight, the sooner we can get back to beer, food, and women. Though perhaps not in that order..." He finished, winking cheerfully at the Commander.

Cyros had to suppress a snort of amusement, but his tail still lashed about instinctively, slapping Kael Stonecrusher across the back of his head. The dwarf paladin glared venomously up at the draenei and the vindicator quickly leaned down to apologize.

"To begin with," Eligor said as he removed a map from its long, oiled leather case and began to unroll it along the table. He placed two flickering candles in their brass holders on either end of the map to keep it spread out. "The Scarlet Crusade has just informed me they cannot support our campaign at this time. The 'why' of it doesn't matter, but I'm sure you heard my-" The Commander paused for a moment, frowning, as if he was searching for the right word. "My _displeasure_ once you entered our camp."

"Aye, we did," Falstad agreed, grinning. "I must admit I was a wee bit surprised I didn't see the man tossed from your tent on his backside."

Eligor erupted into deep, hearty laughter. The rough sound was one of genuine amusement as well as almost _relief_ in Cyros' ears, as if the Commander found very little to laugh about in his life and was unused to such an expression of delight anymore.

"I probably should have," Eligor snorted as he recovered himself. "Light knows it would've made _me_ feel better about the situation. But," And his voice became somber once again. "Without the help of the Scarlet Crusade, we're on our own. Chillwind Camp has too few soldiers to protect their own outpost _and_ support our efforts as well. I would not deprive them of their defenses in the Western Plaguelands and risk losing the Camp. I dispatched a few messengers across both the Eastern and Western Plaguelands to alert other outposts we had established, but we've seen and heard nothing since they departed. I cannot spare any more men to search for additional reinforcements."

"What's your strength then?" Falstad asked bluntly, leaning forward to rest his thick forearms on the table edge.

"A hundred and twenty soldiers," Eligor replied grimly. "And at least ten of those are walking wounded."

"And what do you know of the enemy's strength?" Falstad continued, seemingly at ease with the knowledge his ally's force was half of what he himself had brought.

"We don't have exact numbers, I'm afraid," The Commander replied, shaking his head. "Their attack was sudden and vicious, scores of them emerging from the Infectious Scar in the middle of the night. We've been planning on the assumption we'll be outnumbered at least two-to-one."

"At least," The High Thane agreed, nodding. "If the weather is decent tomorrow, I'll send a patrol of windwarriors to scout their positions."

"I believe it's most likely closer to three-to-one," Eligor said. "Perhaps your gryphon-riders can confirm a more solid number before we attack. But see here," He continued, pointing at specific positions on the map spread across the table. "Our plan was to use our combined strength to hammer a path towards the Chapel. We'll split their forces in two by driving a wedge straight down their throats. Once we reach Light's Hope, my men and one of your companies will swing right, rolling up their left flank, while your other company holds _our_ left flank, anchored by the Chapel itself. It's simple, but effective."

Cyros cleared his throat pointedly.

"I apologize for interrupting," He said formally. "But I disagree with your plan, Commander."

"Oh? And your suggestion would be...?" Eligor asked, leaning back in his chair as he folded his arms across his chest.

Falstad glanced curiously up at the draenei as well.

"If our enemy was led by a lesser death knight or lich, I believe your plan would succeed with little problem. But you should know, Commander, that it's Trevor Greythar we face."

"_Impossible!_" Eligor exclaimed harshly, lurching forward to slam both clenched fists down upon his knees in emphasis, his eyes narrowing as he frowned in disbelief. "He was killed by General Turalyon at the end of the Second War! It's recorded that witnesses saw him fall in battle with Turalyon's enchanted blade lodged in his withered heart. Besides, even if he somehow survived, no one has seen the Black Duke since, not even during the Third War."

"Historians also recorded his body was never recovered to be burnt, like most of the other death knights of the Horde," Kael Stonecrusher said in a quiet, but firm voice. "And just because he hasn't been seen doesn't mean he wasn't out there fighting against us during the Third War, Commander. It could just mean there were never any survivors to report his presence."

The paladin leaned forward, resting his large fists on the table as he stared hard into Eligor's eyes.

"I understand your doubts and suspicion, Commander, but the vindicator here has given his word he's fought against the Black Duke twice already. Though his people aren't from our world, it's undeniable that they follow the Holy Light the same as we do. If Cyros says it is Duke Greythar commanding the Scourge at Light's Hope, then it is so."

These points gave the Argent Dawn officer pause and he lowered his head to stare unblinking at the floor for a long moment.

"It's plain you've done some digging into our past, vindicator," Eligor said at last as he glanced up at Cyros. "If it really is Trevor Greythar, I'm frankly surprised you're still alive. What would you suggest then?"

"I'm afraid that my suggestion, like your plan, is also simple. What is that human saying? If you cut off the head of a snake, the body dies?" A wintry smile crossed the draenei's lips, his tail lashing from side to side in anticipation. "Kael Stonecrusher, myself, and the others from Ironforge will take the battle to the death knight himself."

"That's insane!" Eligor snapped, straightening up abruptly as he glared at Cyros. "That's suicide! The Black Duke was one of the first death knights ever raised by the Horde, perhaps even _the_ first! I don't know how you survived against him before, but if it was by mere luck, that will surely run out! We only have one chance at this! We cannot afford to divide our forces!"

"Nevertheless, Commander," Kael Stonecrusher interrupted sharply. "We must try. If we follow your plan, holding our forces together and leaving the death knight alone, Greythar might somehow crush the heart of this army on his own. But if we can force him into personal combat at our own choosing, remove him from supporting his army, then we might have a slim advantage."

"I see this is something you two have already discussed with the others?" Falstad asked pointedly, his face like stone, arms folded across his chest.

"It is, High Thane," Cyros replied, nodding decisively. "And all of us are in agreement: despite the deadly risk, we believe we must attack Greythar directly. We stand the best chance at opposing him. The army will distract his forces by attacking from the south, allowing us to infiltrate close to Light's Hope Chapel from the east, find the Black Duke, and engage him."

For a long moment, Falstad only stared broodingly at Kael and Cyros. Commander Eligor was silent for the time being as well, glancing over at the High Thane for direction. At last Falstad stirred and spoke.

"It's reckless," He said slowly, ticking off points on his short thick fingers. "It's dangerous, and, most of all, it's madness..."

The High Thane paused and then a fierce grin split his beard as he slammed a heavy hand down on the table.

"But damn me if I don't wish I was coming with you! The bards- No, the hell with the bards! The _gods_ will sing of you if you succeed! Now explain this plan of yours in more detail!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Sleep did not come easily for Cyros, had not come easily in some time now. The anticipation of the battle on the morrow conspired with the..._dread_ he now felt to keep him awake. But when time, combined with some meditation to ease his troubled spirit, eventually took its toll, the vindicator had at last drifted off into an uneasy slumber. He tossed and turned on the simple military cot issued to him by the Wildhammers – the stout wooden frame reinforced and enlarged for his size – in his field tent, his fingers knotting around the wool blanket covering him. His dreams were not nightmares, but they were nonetheless strange...disturbing...

The vindicator was wandering through what seemed to be the ghost of a forest. The looming silhouettes of trees could be dimly seen through a dense, white-gray mist that lay over everything and filled the air. He thought he saw figures that seemed to move and dance in his peripheral vision, but ever they vanished without a trace when he glanced in their direction. Cyros could vaguely make out dark grass beneath his hooves, covered in droplets of moisture he instinctively knew was freezing cold, and yet his heavy hoofbeats seemed to echo hollowly all around him as though he was passing through some vast cavern. A strange rumbling passed overhead now and then, as if muted thunder could be heard in the distance.

He still wore his familiar plate armor, but his hands clenched instinctively into tight fists at the lack of the reassuring weight of his crystalline warhammer. Cyros didn't know why, but he felt the need to search for a weapon, a sensation of terrible unease rippling down his spine, his tail lashing from side to side. This..._place_, whatever it was, felt like a far cry from safe sanctuary and there was a lingering feeling he could not shake that he was being watched by someone or something. The near silence was eerie, but he could still hear the low rush of wind through the air, though he felt nothing.

Suddenly a voice seemed to call in the distance, echoing faintly all around him.

"_Cyros..._"

"Who's there?" The vindicator replied sharply, glancing around cautiously. He paused in his movements, raising both armored fists as he dropped into a defensive stance. His glowing eyes narrowed as his vigilant gaze darted back and forth. "Show yourself!"

"_Cyros..._" The voice whispered again, this time sounding closer. It was a woman's voice, soft, gentle, and hauntingly familiar.

And then-

"Cyros."

The vindicator whirled around in alarm as the voice spoke clearly from behind him. He found himself gazing at Ashira, standing only a handful of strides away, the mist swirling about her as though she was merely a shade from the netherworld. Though the blood elf looked as radiant and beautiful as Cyros remembered her the first day they had met, there was something..._different_ about her now. It was a palpable feeling that was likely his imagination as anything else considering the circumstances, but it was still there and the vindicator had to force himself not to take a step back in wariness.

"Ashira?" Cyros began slowly, his deep voice dropping low to a mere whisper of surprise and disbelief. "How did you-?"

His glowing eyes narrowed in the next instant as he glared at her in blatant suspicion.

"Wait... This is a dream. This is _my_ dream. How can you be here?"

"I..." Ashira began, hesitating, frowning as if she herself did not understand how she was here either. "I'm not entirely sure... But," And her voice grew softer as she smiled sadly at him. "I do know I wanted so very much to see you before the end."

"The end?" Cyros asked, confused.

The vindicator at last took a tentative step towards her, his hooves moving slowly, as if not under his control.

"I don't understand... The only end I see before me is that of Duke Greythar and his Scourge minions at Light's Hope Chapel. I would hope that for us it would be a beginning..."

Cyros half-raised his arms as he spoke, as if desiring her to step forward into his embrace, but still he held back, not moving any closer, still not understanding what was happening.

"Oh, Cyros..." Ashira whispered as she finally took a slight step forward as well, gladness mixing with terrible dread on her face. "No matter how much you and I may wish for that, I fear it is not the fate meant for us."

Cyros could now see tears were pooling in her eyes, trailing down her cheeks, even as she tried bravely to keep smiling, to keep her steady composure.

That wounded strength that had drawn him so powerfully before...

"You don't know what's happened," She continued, her voice growing even quieter. "You don't understand what...what I've _become_... How far I've fallen..."

"_What has he done to you?_" The vindicator snarled, his hands once more clenching tight. "I swear by the Light if he's-!"

Ashira raised a hand placatingly, taking two quick steps forward, the both of them almost in reach of each other.

"Greythar did put me in a horrible position, but..." Her voice faltered, her gaze momentarily dropping to the ground. "But in the end, it was _my_ choice to make and...and I chose _poorly_."

Ashira seemed to quiver, as if her self-control dangled by a single, slender thread. Her voice became desperate, pleading.

"Cyros, do _not_ go to Light's Hope Chapel. He is counting on you coming for me because he _needs_ your anguish, your despair, your suffering. I-I wish I could tell you more, but-"

The blood elf's face unexpectedly tightened into a pained grimace and she clenched her teeth hard as if biting back a terrible agony. Cyros thought he saw a brilliant green light flash for an instant through the veins of her shoulders and arms.

The draenei's face darkened in a frown of uncertainty and confusion, even as all around him the air suddenly became distinctly colder, the mist deepening. The wind howled mournfully through the air. The sensation he was being watched intensified until the vindicator was all but certain _something_ was standing directly behind him, unblinking eyes boring into the back of his skull. The thought terrified him and he fought against the instinctual urge to whirl around to confront whatever nightmare was being conjured forth from the depths of his imagination.

"Just-Just please understand," Ashira continued a moment later, her breath now coming slightly harder as if she had just recovered from some ordeal. "I've this terrible feeling about what will happen. I just _know_ that if you come for me those painful emotions are the only ones you will experience. _Please_, do _not_ go to Light's Hope. It's a trap you will never escape from."

Cyros shook his head stubbornly, stepping forward one last time to place a gauntleted hand on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. Despite that, his voice was a harsh whisper as he spoke.

"Why are you asking this of me? You have to know I would _always_ come for you. Whatever has happened, it doesn't matter now, Ashira. Soon Greythar will pay for everything he's done, I promise; I will see to it _personally_."

The blood elf looked up at him, a slender hand reaching out to gently stroke his cheek. He savored the warmth of her touch, raising his other hand to enclose hers.

"Then this is goodbye..." She whispered and the prophecy of doom behind her hollow words froze his soul, chilling him to the bone as surely as a winter storm. "Please tell it to me now, so I can hear it clearly before the end."

"No," Cyros said softly in disbelief, shaking his head. His voice grew stronger. "No, I _won't_ say that. Not now. I'll say that I would not be parted from your side; that I care for you and would see us together, but I won't say _that_."

"If you don't say it now, then very soon it will be too late," Ashira replied, shaking her head, her eyes a mix of infinite sadness and affection. "But our time here has ended, Cyros. Farewell..."

The blood elf turned to go, but Cyros seized her by the right arm, pulling gently, but firmly to turn her back around.

"Wait!" He began. "I don't understand-"

The vindicator's words were cut short with a harsh grunt of pain as Ashira whirled back around to slam the palm of her left hand squarely into his torso, just below his chest. The sudden blow took Cyros completely by surprise, the breath exploding from his lungs as he was sent flying over ten strides to crash back first into the ground. He rolled weakly over onto his stomach, wheezing for breath. The paladin managed to push himself up with trembling arms onto his hands and knees, turning awkwardly to look up at the blood elf.

"Ash-Ashira..." He gasped, right hand moving to clutch at the dented plate protecting his chest. "Why-?"

"Because now I see how _weak_ you really are, little draenei," Came the snapping, spiteful interruption and the vindicator shook his head briefly to clear his vision.

The blood elf still stood in the same place, but she had somehow..._changed_. Her emerald-green eyes now blazed brightly and her face was twisted into a savage grimace of rage and hate, her teeth bared like fangs. The veins in her arms, shoulders, and chest were glowing as well, swollen visibly with demonic fel-energy coursing through her body. Cyros could _feel_ the evil pouring forth from her in waves, could almost taste the tainted power heavy in the air, and his eyes widened in horror and disbelief.

"No..." He whispered raggedly, half in dismay and half in denial.

"I was weak before, too, Cyros," Ashira spat. "I was wretched and pathetic: feeding off of little creatures in the Twisting Nether to control the _need_ while never allowing myself to taste _true_ power!"

She raised her hands, looking down at them in an almost wonder, as if seeing them for the first time. She slowly clenched them into tight fists.

"_That_ is why I was defeated in the past," The blood elf whispered, her voice tight with emotion. "_That_ is why he was able to take me so easily in the forest. It was because I wasn't strong enough before. But I am _now_."

Her right hand shot up, the index finger stabbing out like a dagger to point at the fallen vindicator.

"The Ashira you knew before is _gone_, Cyros, gone forever. I am the raw _power_ that remains."

"No," The draenei replied adamantly as he rose slowly up onto one knee. He shook his head. "No, I don't believe that; I won't. _This_ isn't you, Ashira. You didn't merely bring me here, to this place, for a simple show of intimidation. _This_," He snapped, gesturing at the blood elf. "Is what's taking over you; what you're allowing yourself to become. This is your most base desires made manifest. But I _know_ you, Ashira; I refuse to believe you've completely given in to this."

"You know _nothing_!" The blood elf hissed. "And you _are_ nothing compared to me! All this time I've either allowed myself to be held back by others or have personally restrained myself, _afraid_," She sneered contemptuously. "Of what might happen, of what I might become. No more! Now the potential has finally been unlocked and I see an infinite world of possibilities before me! I...I..."

Her voice suddenly faltered, her eyes closing as she raised her hands to press against her temples.

"I...am..._stronger_ now...stronger..." Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her face a mask of pain.

The vindicator's eyes narrowed as he rose slowly to his hooves. There was something else there now... A desperate struggle within that he had not sensed before. The evil she had become was not absolute... Not yet.

"Ashira, I can hear it in your voice," Cyros said calmly as he raised a hand in encouragement, gesturing at her. "Deep down, you know this is _wrong_. This _isn't_ you! You've been corrupted, yes, but you are _not_ damned! _Fight it_!"

The mage seemed to sway where she was standing, as if the weight of the world had descended upon her shoulders and it took all of her strength to bear it. At last, Ashira looked up, her face slowly softening into a gentle expression the vindicator instantly recognized, her eyes dimming from the intensity they had been before. Her veins still glowed brightly with fel-taint, but the sheer destructive aura that had been pouring forth from her before had significantly lessened, though had not completely disappeared.

"Ashira," The draenei said in relief, taking a step forward. "Are you all right?"

"Cyros..." She whispered in sudden gladness. "Oh, Cyros, I'm so-!"

She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening in horror, her mouth dropping open to cry out a warning.

Something clamped down hard on the paladin's right shoulder pauldron, squeezing so furiously it crushed the plate armor into a metal vice. Cyros cried out as he felt his bones crack and grind, his knees almost buckling beneath him, tail curling in tightly against his body in agony.

He managed to look over and was transfixed by two burning red eyes.

"_Too late, vindicator!_" The nightmarishly familiar voice hissed in his ear. "_Too late! She is __**mine**__! __**Body**__**and**__**soul**__!_"

And then Cyros was flung backward, falling down into endless darkness. Ashira's panicked scream echoed in his ears as she lunged toward him, hand outstretched, reaching, straining, but she already seemed so far away...

_So far away..._

- - - - -

The draenei paladin came awake with a start, gasping for breath and drenched in cold sweat, his arms reaching out, fingers grasping for Ashira's hand. Twin hearts pounding, the blood thundering in his ears, Cyros lurched up, his widened eyes glancing all around as he took in his surroundings. Seeing the reassuring plain confines of the field tent all around him, the vindicator collapsed back onto his cot with a relieved sigh. He raised a hand to his forehead, thick fingers rubbing across the angular bone plates as he wiped away the sweat from his skin and eyes.

Before he could frame his thoughts, take in what had just happened in his..._dream_ – if it really _had_ been just a dream – there was a scuffle of heavy booted feet from outside and the clank of plate armor.

"It's time, vindicator," Came Kael Stonecrusher's deep voice from beyond the canvas tent's entrance flaps.

Cyros took in a few deep breaths to calm his still racing hearts, forcing aside the shiver of dread anticipation at the dwarf's words as he swung his legs out over the bed, rising to his hooves. Large blue hands hesitated for a long moment, before finally reaching out for his ornate suit of silvery plate armor as it hung on a wooden rack in a corner of the tent.

"I'm ready," He at last replied.

- - - - -

Thunder rolled ominously overhead, rumbling through the gray clouds, the muted bellowing of an angry god. Jagged arcs of lightning flickered and danced, lancing down in brilliant flashes. A chill wind sprung up, wailing as it swept over the poisoned land, screaming through the air like a banshee's unearthly howl.

Commander Eligor Dawnbringer shook his head slowly as he glanced up. His armored war-horse shook its head violently as well, stamping its hooves with a snort of irritation, as if also displeased with the threatening skies.

"This is an ill-omen," He stated somberly, his voice echoing hollowly from his hooded helmet as his eyes narrowed in unease. Across his back was slung a mighty two-handed mace, brilliant white energies crackling across its heavy flanged head.

"Ha!" Falstad grunted cheerfully from beside him, mounted on his war-ram. "Afraid to get a little wet, Commander?"

"Of course not," Eligor retorted. "But in this gloom, I doubt your gryphon-riders will be able to get an accurate count of the Scourge."

"It matters not," The High Thane rumbled, shaking his head as he waved a gauntleted hand dismissively. "Whether there be twice as many as us or ten times as many, we will meet them in battle just the same and crush them." A deep growl of thunder echoed down from overhead, as if emphasizing the dwarf's statement.

Before the Commander could reply, a massive and tawny beast landed before them in a rush of beating wings.

At first glance, it resembled a madman's nightmare creation of eagle and lion combined into one form. However, when one looked closer at the mighty gryphon, it was clear this was a proud and magnificent animal. Its forequarters were in the form of a great eagle, while its hindquarters were that of a powerful lion. It radiated strength and nobility, standing tall with its head raised high in an almost kingly pose.

This particular gryphon resembled many of its kind living in Aerie Peak and the Hinterlands, with golden hooked beak, keenly intelligent dark eyes, and white feathers stretching from its head past its thick neck down to its strong shoulders. Its fierce talons and claws were black, heavy, and terribly sharp, capable of shredding even through a dragon's formidable scales. The skin of its lion body and the feathers covering its large wings were a soft golden-brown color. Prepared for battle, the gryphon was partially armored in red plate, the metal lightweight, but deceptively strong, allowing the animal to retain its speed and agility in the skies.

The squat powerful dwarf mounted on the gryphon's back, firmly strapped into the saddle, raised his ornate storm hammer in salute to Falstad, blue-white energies crawling across the silver head. Unlike the heavily armored High Thane, the windwarrior wore only a mix of leather armor and chainmail, unwilling to burden his flying companion with unnecessary weight.

"Ah, Tagar Stormrider!" Falstad called out as the windwarrior's other two mounted companions landed behind him. "What news?"

"The undead mass in great numbers, High Thane," The windwarrior replied, his voice grim, but resolute. "We counted roughly twelve-hundred before we had to retreat from their necromancer's magic, but there are more than that waiting for us. Gargoyles, skeletal soldiers, ghouls, and zombies make up the bulk of their forces."

"Four-to-one then!" Falstad said, grinning fiercely at Eligor. "Aye, this will be a fight to sing about in the days to come!"

"If any of us survive to speak of it," The Argent Dawn Commander replied dourly.

The High Thane laughed at his ally's grave outlook as he turned back to the windwarrior.

"Tagar, I want you and yours to begin the attack from the west in ten minutes," Falstad ordered. "Once you have the Scourge's attention, signal us and we'll begin our advance from the south. When we engage the enemy, their attention should be focused squarely on our forces, allowing Kael and Cyros to approach the Chapel with their group and search for the accursed death knight. We must continue to hold the Scourge's attention, fighting our way to the Chapel if need be."

"I understand, High Thane," Tagar replied solemnly, saluting Falstad again. "It shall be done as you command!"

The dwarf urged his mount into the air with a gruff shout, gesturing sharply with his storm hammer for the two other windwarriors to follow.

Eligor silently watched them leave, his eyes following the gryphons as they rose on powerful beats of their wings to vanish into the dark gray clouds overhead, jagged lightning splitting the air as they disappeared.

"And so it begins..." He whispered.

- - - - -

Cyros crouched in the gloom cast by a massive boulder, high on a hillside overlooking Light's Hope Chapel. His silvery plate armor had been darkened with handfuls of dirt in a crude attempt at camouflage and the crystal head of his warhammer was wrapped in black cloth. It annoyed the vindicator that he had to now slip through the darkness, steal out of the shadows upon his enemies, but they couldn't take any chances.

The paladins' and priests' holy powers alone made them stand out like blazing torches in ebon darkness to those followers of evil, but with their holy energies currently suppressed as much as they could and with their armor and clothing roughly concealed, it would make it more difficult for the death knight and his servants to locate them. They would sense their presence of course, but would not be able to determine an exact location.

"Soon, vindicator," Kael Stonecrusher whispered harshly from close by, as if raising his voice above such a low tone would give them away. "Once the Wildhammers and the Argent Dawn engage the Scourge, we'll advance on the Chapel and search for Greythar."

"He's there," Cyros replied with grim assertion, his luminous blue-white eyes glaring down at Light's Hope Chapel. "I can feel him... He's..."

His eyebrows furrowed into a hard frown of unease and confusion.

"He's _waiting_ for us..."

The draenei sensed the startled, but still controlled reaction of the dwarf paladin.

"Even if he knows we're coming, he can't stop us from reaching him," Kael said boldly, though there was a note of anxiety in his voice.

"He doesn't want to stop us..." Cyros whispered, his voice so low the dwarf paladin could barely hear him as thunder rolled overheard.

_Greythar_, the vindicator thought, his focus torn between vengeance and apprehension. _I don't know what you're planning, but I'm coming for Ashira. _

_She's __**not**__ yours... __**Not yet**__._

- - - - -

The death knight's eyes flared brighter as he stood in the doorway leading into Light's Hope Chapel, the doors yawning open like the mouth of some giant beast. He stood gazing at the darkening storm overhead, even as he reached out through the shadows, searching...

Something stirred in the east. The paladin was close; the death knight could sense him.

And this time, Cyros was not alone.

"_Yes_..." His whispering voice hissed aloud. "Yes, I am here, vindicator. _She_ is here as well. Come to us, draenei...

"Your end awaits."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

The first and only warning the undead gathered to the south of Light's Hope Chapel received of an imminent attack was a blaze of blue-white fire that lit up the heavens. The glowing light shot down like a searing comet from the gray clouds above, heading towards the greatest concentration of zombies and ghouls.

Glancing up with growls and snarls of hate and surprise, the last thing a dozen ghouls saw was a large ethereal hammer, spinning end over end and burning with blue-white energies, come crashing down amidst them like a god's thunderbolt. The hammer exploded on impact with the ground, sending a wave of destruction expanding out in all directions for over ten strides. The brutal energy wall blew ghouls and zombies into meaty gobbets or stripped flesh from bone, reducing the foul monsters into mere clouds of black ashes within an instant.

Only a moment later, the source of the attack could be seen as a score of golden gryphons dove down from the skies above like avenging angels in a wedge formation, screaming challenges at the undead host gathered below. On their backs rode roaring dwarf warriors, each brandishing aloft a massive silver hammer in one hand. The gryphons swept in low, leveling out over the massed Scourge army to rip and slice with their black talons and claws. Their savage blows tore heads from bodies and gouged bloody furrows across arms and shoulders, slashing through rotted flesh and withered muscle.

Tagar Stormrider raised his storm hammer high, blue-white energies coruscating brilliantly across the silver head. He then violently jerked his arm forward with a rough commanding shout as if to throw the mighty weapon. Instead of releasing his grip to launch the storm hammer, the blaze surrounding the weapon flared even brighter and an exact duplicate of the storm hammer, only twice as big, was flung from it like a bolt of lightning. The energy hammer spun through the air before exploding against the ground, leaving a fiery wake as it drove a long path of destruction through the packed ranks of the Scourge. Only moments later did his other windwarriors follow suit, their own storm hammer attacks carving visible trails through the massed undead.

Screeching ghouls tried to leap up to grab at the swift gryphons, but were smashed back by powerful blows from the dwarves or shredded by the vicious beaks and wickedly sharp talons and claws. Even as a large flock of demon-visaged gargoyles arose on wings of jagged stone and dark crystal to grapple with their airborne foes, the gryphons ascended skyward, the dwarves loosing one final volley before gripping the reins of their flying companions tightly as the furiously beating wings drove them up against the cold wind.

Raising his storm hammer again, Tagar did not cast its energies down into the Scourge, but instead he focused on channeling his fury into the powerful weapon. The windwarrior was in his element, flying free with Vree'kar, his long-time gryphon friend and companion, through the wind and the air, rising higher and higher towards the potent storm brewing above. The dwarf's face twisted into a tight grimace, his teeth clenching hard as he concentrated on the rumbling strength of that storm, reaching out to pull that terrible force to him. His arm quivered visibly as he gripped the haft of the storm hammer even more tightly.

Suddenly a massive bolt of lightning lanced down from the heavens with an earsplitting crack, striking Tagar's storm hammer directly from above. Instead of flashing through the dwarf and gryphon to fry them in an instant, the energy was instead absorbed by the storm hammer, the crackling blue-white glow intensifying until it seemed to mock the very brightness of the sun.

Tagar bellowed long and hard in a wordless battle-cry as he brandished the storm hammer, waving it in circles above his head as Vree'kar shrieked defiance at the skies above and the undead below.

The signal had been given.

- - - - -

"Look there!" Falstad bellowed, pointing with an armored hand, though his words were unnecessary. The blazing blue-white light hovering high above in the sky cast aside all of the darkness looming over the land, throwing the sprawling undead army into stark relief.

"The signal!" The High Thane shouted, his deep voice echoing across the wide poisoned plain that lay before Light's Hope Chapel. He raised high a massive double-bladed battle-axe clenched in his right fist, a large circular shield of carved living stone secured to his left forearm.

"Now is the time! With me, Wildhammers! _For our Clan and the Alliance!_"

"Remember Lordaeron!" Commander Eligor roared, raising his two-handed mace as his war-horse reared high.

"_No mercy for the enemies of the Light!_"

The combined army exploded forward across the diseased ground in a thunder of trampling hooves, shouting warriors, screaming horses, bleating rams, and deep blaring horns calling out the charge.

- - - - -

Duke Greythar's eyes flared brighter as he calmly regarded the Argent Dawn and Wildhammer army that surged forth from the withered trees south of Light's Hope Chapel. He saw that the Argent Dawn's remaining soldiers held the center, flanked by the companies of dwarves.

_And so it begins..._

"Forward!" He snarled aloud as he reached out instinctively with his necromancy to impose his dark will directly on his undead minions. "Forward to their center! Smash through the Argent Dawn and slay them all!"

_And at the same time, provide them with the opening they seek..._

- - - - -

"The attack's begun, Cyros," Kael said, his voice tight with anticipation as he pointed towards the two armies charging towards each other only a kilometer south of Light's Hope Chapel.

The dwarf paladin panned the long gnome-crafted farseer from side to side, squinting into the tubular brass device with his right eye.

"Yes, our army's drawing the Scourge away from the Chapel. The building's still guarded by many undead, but they're nothing we can't deal with easily enough."

"Then let's move," Cyros commanded grimly. He gestured sharply with his right gauntleted hand as he broke into a jog down the hillside.

In focused and silent determination, the six dwarf paladins and four priests followed the vindicator. The small group moved as quickly as they could, seeking to take advantage of the battle between the Scourge and the Wildhammers and Argent Dawn. Light's Hope Chapel loomed up gloomily in the distance, enshrouded in unnatural darkness and putrid greenish fog that swirled about it in the frigid wind.

Even as Cyros jogged steadily towards the Chapel, all thoughts of stealth and concealment banished from his mind, a chill sense of foreboding seemed to settle over him like a stifling cloak.

The vindicator could clearly sense Duke Greythar within the edifice before him. The death knight had made no attempt to conceal his presence; his fearsome necromantic power was unshackled, blazing out for all to feel. The sheer depths of his foe's black might astounded the draenei paladin, threatening to sap his resolve, to drain his courage down to the very dregs of cowardice and despair. And yet, alongside the Black Duke's terrible energies, Cyros could feel Ashira's monstrous strength as well. The blood elf mage was still alive and right now that was _all_ that mattered.

_This_ was the end she had foretold, what she had tried to warn him about. Cyros could feel it. The vindicator's jaw set in grim resolution as he focused his thoughts. No matter what she had become, no matter how terribly powerful she had seemingly grown, the blood elf was_ not_ damned. She could be saved, redeemed. Disregarding everything else, he had to remember that and he had to try.

Even as he jogged towards the distant building, his hooves thumping heavily against the diseased ground beneath, Cyros tore the dark cloth from his warhammer. He tossed it away to flutter through air, rising higher towards the stormy skies above. The purple crystal head of his weapon gleamed brightly now, all former lifelessness banished, the crackling energies contained within now blazing golden. He readjusted his grip on the haft, armored fingers flexing.

Healed, renewed, the vindicator was as strong as he had ever been before and now purpose once again filled his mind and soul, conviction that had been lacking ever since Ashira had been taken.

Cyros had failed her before. It would not happen again.

- - - - -

"I don't suppose-!" Commander Dawnbringer shouted as his two-handed mace smashed a ghoul onto its back. His horse, a trained war-beast, reared up high, screaming a challenge as it lashed out with its hooves at another zombie, crushing its skull.

"-that now would be a good time to voice my-!"

The Commander kicked out with an armored boot, catching a ghoul across the jaw, even as he stabbed his mace down as if it were a lance, hammering it into the chest of another lurching zombie. Eligor bit back a foul curse as he beheld the armor, sword, and shield of a former Argent Dawn footman, his head and torso bisected by a blow of terrible strength.

"-_disagreement_ with being used as _bait_!"

The slavering Argent Dawn zombie came at him again with an unearthly howl, its sword hacking down at Eligor's right thigh. The Commander blocked the blade awkwardly with the haft of his mace and then slammed the butt-end of his weapon across the zombie's face, knocking it onto its back. A brutal stamp from his war-horse's steel-shod hooves cracked open the undead monster's skull and it immediately ceased writhing.

"You should've said something sooner!" Falstad roared gruffly back, fighting enthusiastically on foot less than ten paces away from the Commander against three weapon-wielding skeletal warriors.

Laughing madly, the High Thane lashed out with his round stone shield, using his tremendous strength to bludgeon aside two of the skeletons. His battle-axe exploded the third into bone fragments as he hacked the weapon down through its torso from left shoulder to right hip.

"Besides, the plan's working well enough, isn't it? They're all coming for you!"

"Bah!" Eligor grunted in reply, his breath coming in deep gasps, lungs already burning from the constant fighting. "It's working too-!"

"_Commander!_" A shouted warning rang out. "Behind you!"

Without hesitating, Eligor tried to jerk his war-horse around to confront the threat, his two-handed mace sweeping out like a club. Just as the flanged head connected with the skull of a skeleton warrior, the heavy halberd the Scourge soldier was wielding slashed down to bite into Dawnbringer's right thigh, hacking through the chainmail between the plates of armor. The Commander shouted in rage and pain, even as his strike ripped the skeleton's head from its shoulders and sent it flying away into the gloom. His horse stumbled forward slightly and Eligor almost dropped his mace as his right hand shifted instinctively down to press hard against the bleeding wound.

Only a moment later, he felt a rush of wind against his back, heard the flap of beating wings, and then black claws like daggers slashed down across his back, drawing streams of sparks as they skidded along Eligor's sturdy plate armor. Something large and heavy plowed bodily into the Commander, knocking him easily from his war-horse.

Dawnbringer landed heavily on his left side, the air driven from his lungs by the force of the unexpected impact. Gasping for breath, Eligor wriggled and thrashed like a landed fish, trying to dislodge this new enemy. Kicking the foe back with a booted foot, he managed to rise up onto one knee, swinging his mace out clumsily to smash the creature across the hips and legs with the weapon. The gray stone and dark crystal sustained the snarling gargoyle's form, however, and the minion of the Scourge pressed forward again, raising both of its clawed hands for another attack.

Before it could strike, the gargoyle's right hand was suddenly enclosed in a huge dark blue and bright gold armored fist that immobilized its arm as easily as it would restrain a child.

"Korfax," Eligor gasped, his teeth gritted in pain as blood continued to stream down from his wounded thigh. He leaned heavily on his mace for support as he rose slowly to his feet, his arms almost numb from the fighting, his right leg burning with pain.

"At your service, Commander," The Champion of the Light rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, akin to boulders grinding roughly together, as he glared down at the gargoyle he held in his left gauntleted hand. His once gleaming plate armor was now covered in gore and dirt, and the curved blades adorning his shoulders made the Champion appear more like some avenging spirit of wrath come from the underworld, rather than a true hero of the Argent Dawn.

A sheer giant of a man looming at near seven feet in height, his features seemingly carved from weathered granite, Korfax was without question the mightiest and most courageous warrior the Argent Dawn had ever recruited in their war against the Darkness. Though he had declined a command position, the Champion nonetheless drew a strong following wherever he went, an unshakeable living mountain to the ideals and beliefs of the Argent Dawn. In combat, he almost always served as a flesh-and-blood standard, his sheer presence bolstering flagging spirits and rallying weary soldiers to him, even as he laid about him with mighty strokes of his massive battle-axe.

Quickly, but with a twisted grimace of disdain, Korfax hurled the undead creature away, throwing it into a pack of zombies and ghouls, the impact sending all of them sprawling against the ground. He reached out again, grasping Eligor's left arm to steady him, even as he raised the double-bladed axe in his right hand, glancing about in readiness.

The Commander looked about as well.

"How did-" He began to ask Korfax, but stopped short with grim realization.

The Scourge were amongst his soldiers now, had forced their way through the first few orderly ranks. His embattled, but disciplined warriors were falling back on their training, fighting in triads and pairs, all doing their best to protect each other. There were no more war cries now, no more battle chants, the men saving what little breath they could suck into their lungs for the continuous rise and fall of their weapons. Eligor saw the sheer numbers of the Scourge were threatening to drive the Argent Dawn back, his men holding their ground only by the slimmest of margins. And still the undead continued to push relentlessly forward in a clear effort to split his soldiers further and further apart. Soon it would be near impossible to maintain any sort of formation and their resolve would quickly begin to buckle as well.

Storm hammers blazed down from several windwarriors circling overhead, illuminating the conflict with bursts of bright unearthly light even as the weapons drove back the undead with impenetrable walls of energy and fire. The fearless gryphons and their dwarf riders even swooped down low enough to grapple in hand-to-hand combat with the Scourge, but soon it would not be enough to hold back the ever-pressing tide.

"By the Light," Eligor whispered as his wide eyes panned over the desperate struggle, before quickly raising his voice to a commanding roar, almost cracking from the strain. "Stand your ground, men! Hold them! Form circles!"

"_Form circles!_" Korfax bellowed, echoing Eligor's command, even as he hewed the head of a ghoul from its body. A follow-up kick from an armored boot doubled up a rotting high elf zombie to receive a similar fate.

The Commander was grateful for the iron lungs of the Champion as Korfax's deep voice rose above the cacophony of noise, from the clashing of weapons to the hoarse screams of wounded men to the gruff battle-cries of the dwarves and the screeching of ghouls and gargoyles.

Nearby Argent Dawn soldiers quickly took up the call, shouting aloud in ragged voices to, "Form circles!" even as they battled frantically to reach one another.

At first singly, then in pairs, and then in even greater numbers, the fighters began gathering together in dense phalanx formations, forming circular shield walls that only parted for the briefest of moments to admit more stumbling Argent Dawn into their ranks, some of them dragging the wounded with them. The weary bloodied men stood shoulder-to-shoulder in two separate rings of steely death that faced outward, bristling with swords and spears.

Those few who still had longbows and quivers of arrows were placed at the center to loose shots over the packed soldiers into the oncoming Scourge. The remaining Argent Dawn priests that had survived the initial assault on Light's Hope chanted steadily amidst the defensive formations, almost fainting with the effort of healing those most grievously hurt.

"Falstad!" Eligor cried, turning back to where he had last seen the High Thane, even as Korfax dragged the staggering Commander determinedly towards the nearest shield-circle. "We can't hold them for much longer! Hit them _now_!"

"Aye!" The High Thane roared back.

Falstad was fighting with ten of his personal guard against a swarm of ghouls and descending gargoyles as he personally led the left company of Wildhammers at the forefront of the battle. The bellowing warrior-king smote a gargoyle such a blow that cracks splintered throughout its form, before it broke apart into crumbling pieces. Deep horns resounded from the High Thane's company, echoing mournfully across the battlefield.

The right flank of Falstad's company that bordered the Argent Dawn's forces seemed to bulge outward as the ranks of heavily armored dwarves parted to allow a roaring force of twenty-five handpicked warriors mounted on bleating war-rams to charge through, crashing into the Scourge's own right flank. At the same moment, another similar force was launched from the left flank of the dwarf company to the Argent Dawn's right. The two groups slashed into the Scourge like a scythe through a field of wheat, the dwarves cutting their enemies down with brutal ease even as their war-rams crushed and tore the diseased and decomposing corpses beneath pounding hooves.

Though the Scourge possessed unrelenting savagery and an unwavering tenacity that stretched far beyond any mere mortal opponent's resolve, they were nonetheless slow to react to a changing battlefield and took the twin flank charges with hideous casualties in the first few seconds alone. The attacks bore deep into the undead's packed numbers and even as they did, both Wildhammer companies maneuvered inward, moving slowly, but with dogged determination, pushing their enemies back as they swung around like doors. The jaws of the trap closed on the Scourge army, crushing the hideous monsters against the anvil of the Argent Dawn's shield walls.

"Commander!" Korfax shouted, despite fighting side-by-side with Eligor. He gestured with his gore-stained battle-axe towards Light's Hope in the distance. "Look there!"

Dawnbringer looked to where the Champion was pointing. He squinted his eyes for a better view, wiping away some of the sweat and blood from his face with the back of a gauntlet. He could barely make out the blue-white crackling energies of storm hammers whirling through the sky and the flying winged forms of several gryphons against the dark gray backdrop of the clouds overhead.

Even as he watched, the gryphons seemed to spread out into an angular attack formation, all of them giving each other plenty of room to maneuver as they dove towards the ground below. In the next moment, their windwarriors loosed their storm hammers at unseen targets, the weapons flashing down. Distant explosions reached Eligor's ears and realization abruptly dawned on the Commander.

"They've found him..." He said grimly, not caring if anyone could not hear him over the struggle.

"They've found Greythar."

- - - - -

Even as his warhammer smashed through the leering face of a skeleton warrior, Cyros could not help but wince as blue-white trails of fiery destruction slashed across the ground to either side of him. He was forced to fling up an armored hand to shield his vision.

The vindicator seemed to be running through some insane gauntlet as storm hammers rained down almost continuously from the heavens like showers of otherworldly comets. The rippling shockwaves from the magical weapons threatened to send him tumbling to his knees with every step he took. Even as he glanced to his left, he saw a group of charging ghouls suddenly explode into blackened meaty chunks as two flung storm hammers carved their way through them. The windwarriors overhead were doing their best to prevent the oncoming Scourge from engaging the running group of paladins and priests, but with every passing second the undead drew ever closer, as did the explosions and concussions of the storm hammers.

Cyros paused for a moment, his breath coming hard and fast, chest heaving. He staggered as a new volley of storm hammers exploded in a rippling pattern across the ground to his right, falling to one knee. Before he could push himself back up to his hooves, a large armored hand seized his right arm, yanking him up easily.

"Keep moving, Cyros!" Kael Stonecrusher roared, his voice echoing hollowly from his war-helm. He gestured sharply with the massive glowing mace clenched tightly in his right fist, the ball-head studded with thick sharp spikes. "We have to keep pushing forward!"

Before the draenei could reply, the dwarf paladin glanced behind him to check on his fellow paladins and priests. In the next moment, he suddenly shoved Cyros back down onto the ground as he shouted, "Get down!"

The vindicator could not see what was happening behind them, but he managed to glance up just as two windwarriors passed directly overheard. The Wildhammer dwarves flew so low their gryphons' talons and claws came within less than two strides from Cyros' face. He instinctively flinched back, the beating wings buffeting him with heavy blasts of air, and squeezed his glowing eyes shut as the dwarves flung their brilliant weapons to explode a charging group of ghouls only a short distance before Cyros and Kael. The shrieking war-cries of the gryphons rang in his ears, even as they rose skyward once more.

As Kael hauled him bodily up again, the vindicator glanced around to see that the Scourge were at last upon them in force, the first of the ghouls leaping forward to grapple with the courageous dwarf paladins that strode to meet them. The ground shaking beneath his hooves and a wordless shout of surprise and fear from the priestess Alaeria were the only warnings he received as a new horror came upon them.

Cyros spun around, raising his warhammer high, only to pause in momentary shock, confronted by a revolting wall of diseased flesh and bloated muscle that loomed over him.

The enormous abomination glared down at him, its right oversized eye a dark mass of burst blood vessels surrounding the yellow pupil and black iris. The other eye had been squeezed shut long ago by disgusting folds of fatty sagging skin. All across its pustulant form, dark fluids oozed and dribbled from between the crude leather stitching, the mass of entrails at its stomach dragging obscenely against the ground. A swollen phlegmy bellow of rage seemed to bubble up from its rotted lungs, black filth spraying from its mouth as it swung high the huge rusty cleaver it clutched in its right monstrous fist.

Cyros ducked low as the weapon slashed down, before lunging forward to swing his warhammer around. The crystal head smashed into the abomination's right knee, but disgustingly, the warhammer merely sank into the slimy pestilent flesh, impacting with nothing remotely solid. Cursing, the vindicator sprang back, his weapon tearing free in a welter of green pus and dark congealed blood as the abomination swung a lazy backhand at him. The monster's fingers still clipped his chest though and sent him sprawling in the dirt. Alaeria came to his aid in the next moment, smiting the moaning Scourge creature with a blast of holy flame and sending it reeling back, its thick voice roaring incoherently.

Even as he rose to his hooves with a gasp of thanks, Cyros was aware that all around him the paladins and priests were heavily engaged against all manner of Scourge monstrosities that beset them from all sides. Even as he watched, skeletal limbs and malformed bodies clawed their way up from the very earth itself to clutch at the struggling dwarves. Glancing to his right, he saw a shriveled and wizened figure cloaked in black cackling madly from nearby, even as it raised the staff of twisted wood it held in its right hand, summoning forth more undead to battle against the living.

"Kael!" The draenei bellowed, pointing with a gauntleted hand at the necromancer. "There! Slay him or we'll be overwhelmed!"

He barely managed to swing his warhammer up in time in the next instant to parry aside a heavy blow from the abomination's left cleaver, the impact sending him staggering back, arms nearly numbed.

Suddenly two flopping arms, extruding obscenely from near the monster's midriff, lashed out with a long length of thick rusty chain with a hook, sending the crude weapon hurtling out at the vindicator. The chain wrapped around Cyros' legs and then the two arms yanked with surprising strength, tripping up the vindicator onto his back and dragging him closer. Even as the abomination gurgled in triumph, raising an enormous foot to crush the draenei paladin, Kael Stonecrusher hurled a blistering exorcism into its face, his holy wrath burning the creature's flesh right down to the yellowed bones beneath. In the next moment, Cyros tore his legs free from the chains using brute strength alone, smashing at the rusted links of metal with his warhammer, before scrambling back as the abomination howled in fury.

Adrenaline stormed through Cyros' body, providing him with an unnatural clarity of all that was happening around him. In his peripheral vision, the vindicator saw Kael crush his way through several ghouls, rampaging through them like a juggernaut, loosing holy bolts and powerful strikes from both mace and shield to win his way through the necromancer's undead bodyguard. Skeleton warriors advanced to meet him and bar his path towards their master, but the dwarf would not be denied.

Even as the skeletons surrounded him, raining down blow after blow with their rusty weapons onto his armor and raised shield, Kael swung his mace back and then threw it. The glowing weapon flashed across the distance separating the dwarf paladin from his target, humming viciously through the air. Too late, the necromancer raised his spindly arms in a vain attempt to cast a protective spell, but the speed of the weapon carried it into his face with unerring accuracy. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him flying to sprawl on the ground six strides away, unmoving.

In an instant, the skeletons surrounding Kael seemed to shudder, their movements slowing into laughable sluggishness, before they disintegrated into piles of bones, armor, and weapons, the necromantic power holding their forms together unraveling. Shuffling zombies moaned and groaned as they collapsed stiffly to the ground, their mockery of life ending abruptly.

The abomination roared again in fury, drawing Cyros' attention back to it once more as it pounded forward to crush him. The lower half of its face had been burned down to blackened bones, its jaws now resembling a horrible and twisted smile. It raised the cleaver in its right hand, swinging down at Cyros with terrible force. Snarling, the vindicator sprang forward to meet its advance, his warhammer sweeping out to smash aside the descending wrist, crushing the joint utterly and sending the cleaver hurtling out into the darkness.

As he leapt up at the monster's grotesque face, teeth bared, warhammer raised, two blazing storm hammers burned their way past Cyros' right side, smashing into the abomination's chest and left shoulder in near-simultaneous impacts. Raising its swollen voice in a bellow of rage, the abomination began to fall backwards as it was knocked off balance.

"_In the name of the Light!_" Cyros shouted, swinging his warhammer downward at the abomination's head.

The weapon exploded the monster's skull in a shower of rotten brains, dark blood, and shards of bone. The savage, albeit crude intelligence faded from the monster's single glaring eye as it landed hard against the ground, causing it to shudder and heave.

The draenei paladin landed heavily on both hooves, his powerful legs flexing beneath him to absorb the weight of his fully armored body. He stabbed the sharply pointed other end of his warhammer through the throat of a lunging, hissing ghoul in the next moment, before jerking it out swiftly and clubbing the foul creature to the ground.

"How about you leave some for me next time, Cyros," Kael called out as he and his remaining paladins and priests caught up to the vindicator, the death of the necromancer causing a momentary lull in the desperate fighting that the dwarves were swift to exploit.

The paladin leader was covered in dark gore, his armor plate torn and dented, but the grim smile on his lips showed the draenei that defeat and despair were the furthest things on the dwarf's mind at the moment.

Kael gestured behind him and for a second, his deep voice was heavy with regret.

"We lost both Daken and Rosa back there. They were cut off from the rest of us and surrounded. Last anyone saw was the two of them fighting together against close to two-score ghouls and gargoyles."

Cyros nodded slowly and it was only then, as he glanced around, that he realized their running battle across the poisoned plain around Light's Hope Chapel had carried them almost to the very threshold of the dark structure. The aura of power surrounding the building throbbed deep and angry, almost overwhelming in its pulse.

"They died as they lived, Kael: noble and honorable servants of the Holy Light."

"Aye," Kael agreed, but his voice was harsh and even in the dim light, the storm swirling overhead with rumbling thunder and flashing lightning, Cyros could tell the paladin's muscles were bunched and tense beneath his armor.

"When our end arrives, we must face it with honor. Still," The dwarf continued, glancing around, his tone momentarily dark and brooding. "Falling against the Scourge on some dark and nameless battlefield, surrounded and alone... That is no end for worthy warriors of the Light."

"They will always be remembered, Kael," Cyros said firmly. "And if we triumph here today, their deaths will not have been in vain. _If_," He repeated meaningfully. "We succeed." He gestured at Light's Hope looming up before them. "Greythar stands before us, within the Chapel. Follow me!"

The vindicator pushed his tired body into a swift jog and heard the rapid thumps of booted feet behind him as the dwarves moved to follow. As he gazed at the ominous darkness between the open doors of Light's Hope, he found he could not tear his eyes away. The blackness seemed to draw him in, swelling in his vision like a nightmare incarnate until he found himself gasping for air as if drowning.

The familiar whispering, resonating voice spoke suddenly, as if in his very mind, sinister and malevolent.

_Welcome at last, vindicator... _

_Only __**you**__ are permitted to enter..._

"Cyros!" Kael shouted from behind the running draenei paladin.

The vindicator stopped at once, skidding to a halt as he whirled around in alarm to behold the dwarf paladins and priests surrounded by dozens of ghouls and zombies, gargoyles circling overhead with harsh shrieks and roars. Even as he watched, still more ghouls tore themselves free from the ground itself. These were not bodies only now raised from the earth to fight, but minions of the Scourge summoned by the dread will of their master to enforce his command.

The draenei began to start back, raising his warhammer, but the hard roar of the paladin leader stopped him in his tracks.

"_No!_" Kael shouted. "You must go on, Cyros!"

Even at this distance, the vindicator could see the resolute and defiant stance of the dwarf paladin as he raised both mace and shield.

"I think we all knew this is how it would end! Destroy him, vindicator! Don't let this sacrifice-!"

All other words were lost as the snarling ghouls and moaning zombies advanced forward relentlessly to bury the paladins and priests of Ironforge under an unholy tide of tearing fangs and slashing claws.

For a moment, Cyros could only watch in numb silence the final stand of Kael and his fellow dwarves. He barely noticed overhead Wildhammer windwarriors diving down into the fray, lashing out with their storm hammers even as their gryphons tore into the gargoyles, dragging the monsters bodily down into the swirling, hellish combat below.

After a long agonizing moment that tore at his soul, the vindicator at last turned away, his cheeks flushed with shame, but his eyes hard and cold with grim resolve.

The fierce battle raging behind the vindicator seemed to recede, fading away into the dim recesses of Cyros' mind as he faced Light's Hope Chapel. All the draenei paladin could hear now was the steady beating of his twin hearts, the low pounding of the blood pulsing through his veins, the calming breaths he pulled into his lungs. And all he could see before him was Light's Hope, rising up, still cloaked in unnatural darkness. The vindicator felt the deep throbbing of Duke Greythar's power emanating from within the interior, flowing out from the cracked and splintered doors that were flung wide, gaping open like the misshapen and toothless maw of some hideous beast.

For a moment that seemed to stretch on into eternity, Cyros stood unmoving before the building, gazing unblinking into the shadows that awaited him. A calm and focus such as he had never experienced before at last descended on the vindicator. He found himself inadvertently whispering aloud prayers and canticles he had been taught long ago, when he had first joined the holy order that was now known as the Hand of Argus.

The vindicator bowed his head and closed his eyes in preparation, armored hands flexing around the adamantite haft of his warhammer, lips still forming the familiar words, his deep voice chanting ceaselessly. For an instant, a blue-white rune-symbol glowed to life above his head, before bursting apart into flaring energies that swept down, infusing Cyros from hooves to head. The golden glow crackling within the crystal head of his weapon blazed brighter and when the vindicator looked up once more, his luminous blue-white eyes burned even more intensely. The draenei's entire body seemed to bulk larger, swelled with power.

The Holy Light infused him and the blessing of the Naaru was upon him.

He was ready.

Without any further hesitation, Cyros stepped across the threshold of Light's Hope Chapel, disappearing into the darkness within.


	11. Final Battle, Part 1

**Chapter Eleven**

"_Light...or Darkness. Between you and I, __**all**__ will be decided_." - Ashram, Record of Lodoss War OVA

* * *

Cyros' eyes slowly flickered before suddenly snapping open wide, glaring about warily.

It felt as if he had fallen into a deep, draining slumber, with his very flesh and muscle seeming to hang like leaden weights from his skeleton with fatigue, though he knew that was impossible. Still, his surroundings gave the draenei pause, for this was not the plain interior of Light's Hope Chapel as he had been expecting.

The main chamber of the Chapel had been cleared and emptied of all pews, altars, and abandoned holy relics and symbols. The windows had all been shattered, now lying in half-melted piles of broken stained glass. Flickering torches set in black iron sconces along the stone walls were the only sources of illumination, casting long, sinister shadows across the chamber. And though Cyros knew a great battle was being waged even now right outside of the Chapel, the interior where he stood was strangely still and quiet. As his gaze returned to the front of the chamber, where normally the priests and clerics would conduct their sermons and holy prayers from behind the main altar, his eyes narrowed still further in suspicion, his black eyebrows knitting together in a frown of uncertainty.

Placed across the far wall, in two rows, were twelve stone coffins, each covered in dust and cobwebs. On the nearest coffin, the vindicator saw the blazing sun symbol of the Argent Dawn, expertly carved into the side.

Before the draenei could begin to speculate any further, the deep, whispering voice echoed hollowly all around him, laced with sinister anticipation.

"_Cyros..._"

The sound sent a chill rippling down the vindicator's spine and his grip tightened on his warhammer. His eyes darted about as he glanced around, searching for his nemesis. Abruptly, the terrible power roared into being above Cyros and his gaze shot up to behold the death knight hovering above him in the center of the chamber, his ragged purple cloak flapping in some unnatural breeze. His glowing red eyes flashed brightly as he glared down at the vindicator.

"Greythar," The paladin growled, raising his warhammer.

"The one and only," The Black Duke replied mockingly, nodding briefly in affirmation.

Cyros saw that Greythar had discarded his obsidian morningstar and flesh-shield in favor of a massive two-handed sword. The razor-sharp blade was long, jagged, and as black as night, gleaming like liquid jet in the flickering torch light. Vile and twisted runes had been carved into the sword itself, each glowing with a glacial blue-white color.

"I've been waiting for you, vindicator," Greythar continued, gesturing grandly with his rune-sword. "Or perhaps I should say _we_ have been waiting for you..."

"Where's Ashira?" Cyros demanded, taking a decisive step forward, golden light flaring across his armored body as he prepared for battle. "What have you done with her?"

The death knight laughed harshly as he raised his left hand, pointing to behind the towering paladin.

"See for yourself, Cyros. She stands only just behind you."

"What-?" The draenei began, whirling quickly around in alarm, his dark purple hooves scraping against the stone floor. He caught himself at the last moment from raising his warhammer to strike, battle-honed instincts springing to the fore.

Ashira stood quiet and still before him, wearing the same red and gold robe he had first met her in, now stained and soiled by their travels and her imprisonment. Her heavy lidded green eyes glowed with an eerie brightness and a strange, almost dreamy smile stretched across her lips. Like in his..._nightmare_ from before, her veins were distended, swollen obscenely beneath her flesh by pulsing green energy.

"Cyros..." She breathed, her voice low and thrilling, filled with both sultry desire and rising excitement. "You came for me. I knew you would."

"Ashira?" The vindicator asked hesitantly.

Cyros' vigilant gaze flicked quickly up and down her body as he studied the blood elf cautiously, his jaw tightening as his muscles tensed in readiness. The power radiating from the blood elf mage was enormous, the proximity of the terrible demonic taint twisting his insides and churning his stomach. A wave of nausea swept through him and he swallowed forcefully, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady and calm. He nerved himself for what had to be done. Against this evil, the paladin knew he couldn't hold back, lest he doom them both. However, at the same time, he couldn't loose all of his restraint and seek to end her.

She didn't deserve to die for her unwilling corruption-

"Unwilling?" Ashira said softly, her smile twisting into a mocking smirk.

Cyros couldn't stop his eyes from widening in shock as she continued. How could she know-?

"Perhaps at first... But ever since, my lord Trevor Greythar has shown me what _true_ strength is; he has given me the opportunity to grasp _real_ power. Shall I demonstrate?"

The blood elf slowly, almost languidly, raised a delicate hand, slim fingers spread and pointing at the vindicator. The draenei sensed the menacing shift of energies an instant too late.

"Ashira-!" Cyros began, his deep voice rising in alarm.

He began to extend his right fist, his lips already moving hurriedly to chant the words of his most powerful exorcism. Golden light began forming around his gauntleted hand, glowing brightly-

"No longer."

Jagged, searing green-white light blazed from her hand like tainted lightning. They smashed furiously into the vindicator's chest, tearing across his armored body, ripping through skin, muscle, and bone. Cyros couldn't restrain the ragged scream that was torn from his lips as the energies seemed to scorch his very _soul_, the agony surging through him feeling as if anything more powerful might burn it to dust.

The armored paladin was sent flying back near twenty strides, landing heavily on the ground in a crash of metal against stone. For a long moment, Cyros could only lay where he had fallen, unmoving, his face twisted into a rictus of terrible pain, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. A solitary tear dripped from his right eye. He had never before felt such absolute and overwhelming hurt. His discipline, his focus, it was all near useless in the face of such dreadful agony. Perhaps... Perhaps even his resistance was useless as well... Wouldn't it be easier to just submit? Hopefully then Ashira would end it quickly...

_**No! **_The singular, defiant thought came plowing forward like a battering ram.

The vindicator was a fighter, a holy warrior trained and dedicated, one sworn to seek out and destroy that which he now faced. His thoughts now weren't his own; they couldn't be. They had to be some foul trickery of despair by Greythar or Ashira. If _this_ was how it all ended, he would see it finished as Kael Stonecrusher had, standing proud and strong, not laying whimpering on the ground like a spineless coward!

With a terrible groan, Cyros forced his eyes open and rolled onto his stomach, pushing himself slowly up onto his hands and knees. His breathing came in deep, near sobbing gasps, and his muscles spasmed uncontrollably from the fel-lightning's aftereffects. He forced the twitching fingers of his right hand to squeeze hard around the haft of his warhammer, dragging it with him as he staggered up onto his hooves.

The vindicator turned around slowly, wondering why Ashira hadn't moved yet to finish him. He found her standing where she had been before, hand outstretched. Her lips still formed that odd fey-like smile, but as he peered closer, it seemed her face had become a mask, frozen in place, as if her true focus was elsewhere. He could even see tendrils of the green-white energy coiling around her hand and fingers, as if she had prepared a second blast, but hadn't loosed it, prevented at the last moment by...by...

Cyros' eyebrows furrowed as he concentrated, reaching out...

_There_. The division he had sensed before during the dream. Some part of Ashira - the _true_ Ashira - was still alive, fighting against the evil within. The vindicator's eyes narrowed as he sensed the faintness of that other part. Fighting...and seemingly losing.

The blood elf abruptly shuddered, her eyes springing back into deadly focus, her smile deepening, sinister and menacing. She lowered her hand momentarily.

"I'm sorry about that," She purred, her voice like honey, the power within bloating her confidence. "I was..._distracted_ for a moment. You're all better though, I see. Shall we continue?"

* * *

Duke Trevor Greythar relaxed from where he had been hovering, sheathing his rune-sword behind his back and folding his arms across his chest, his burning red eyes dimming slightly. He suppressed a snort of dark amusement at Fel-Ashira's words.

For a moment, the death knight had considered personally intervening. The goodness within Ashira, the last vestige of her mind and soul that had remained intact despite her corruption, was still resisting with a stubborn ferocity that impressed even him. Drawing partially on the fel-energy coursing through her body, that part of her had come once again perilously close to regaining control.

Greythar had to admit that Fel-Ashira's power was even greater than he had anticipated. She had consumed all of his captured Legion demons with a near frightening speed and hunger, her strength increasing with each meal. Twice, he had to restrain her with his own might, preventing her from leaving to seek out greater sources of demonic power. Each time he had been tested quite thoroughly by the blood elf mage, but his long years spent as an unholy abomination had granted him the experience and strength necessary to defeat her.

The Black Duke's eyes glowed brighter as they flicked back and forth between the two combatants, studying each of them carefully.

He was still confident Fel-Ashira would succeed in destroying Cyros. It was now a necessary act that _had_ to be fulfilled. The blood elf's attachment to the draenei had to be severed. While he still lived, Ashira's steadfast resistance would remain and Greythar merely cutting the vindicator down in personal combat wouldn't be the same. Such an act would simply martyr the paladin and spur that other part of her to an even greater wrath. Instead, _she_ had to do it, had to _realize_ and _understand_ what she was doing, and _know_ there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Trevor Greythar laughed, cold and cruel, as he glanced over at the Argent Dawn coffins lining the front of the chamber.

Once Cyros had been slain, Ashira would go mad, insane with the act she had just unwillingly committed against one that meant so much to her. A single blow from Greythar would then end her, sealing the spell he had carefully prepared as the vindicator's agony blended perfectly with the mage's despair. The horror both would feel in their last moments of life would be..._exquisite_, allowing the death knight to seize the blood elf's fel-energy and manipulate it for his own purposes.

In a matter of minutes at most, the world's ending would finally begin.

Ashira had destroyed so many of his kind during the Third War...

It was therefore only fitting she be used to raise a new order of death knights, spawned from some of the Argent Dawn's greatest heroes.

* * *

Breathing hard, limbs still twitching occasionally, Cyros could only manage a jerking nod and a rasp of assent, unwilling to waste precious air on words or even his strength on a swift healing spell.

Ashira's lips widened further into a sardonic leer that was at once sensual and mocking as she raised her left hand, her fingers wiggling as if she was waving goodbye. She suddenly vanished in a flare of brilliant green flame, before reappearing within the same a mere heartbeat later directly before Cyros. Her thin eyebrows arched teasingly as she winked up at the towering draenei.

"Why, hello there, handsome..."

Without warning, her right hand shot up, green fel-lightning blazing from it like before. The demonic energy coursing out smashed against the flaring golden nova Cyros sent forth, holding his warhammer at an angle before him in both hands as if it were his only means of protection. The vindicator poured every ounce of his strength into the holy shield before him, clenching his teeth so hard that blood flowed from his gums, staining his teeth and trickling obscenely from his lips. His eyes were tight and focused, the muscles across his body bulging as if he struggled physically against some great obstacle.

As the contact point between the two opposing forces flared white-hot, Ashira smiled in seeming delight.

"You truly _are_ powerful..." She whispered and her voice seemed to echo within Cyros' skull. "But you're not strong enough by far..." She raised her left hand as she spoke and fel-energy shot forth from it as well, combining with the first crackling beams to increase their intensity.

The vindicator gritted his teeth even harder, bowing his head slightly, unwillingly, against the ever-strengthening onslaught. Sweat streamed down his face and neck as he gave ground reluctantly, forced back one slow step after another. His holy barrier flickered and sagged, but still didn't give way beneath the continuous attack, Cyros' stubborn determination causing the shield to hold, albeit barely.

_Ashira!_ He cast out desperately. _I can't do this alone! I need your help!_

The reply was faint, quavering, and completely unexpected.

_Cy-Cyros?_ And then more strongly, _Cyros!_ _I-I can't stop it! I don't know what to do! __**I can't stop it**__!_

The blood elf's 'voice' was frantic, panic-stricken, but despite that, the vindicator's spirit soared at the sound within his mind.

_Focus, Ashira!_ _Concentrate! You must regain control! You've allowed yourself to fall, but now you must find the strength to rise again!_

All the while he was projecting, Cyros reached out, clawing desperately for more power to oppose the demonic evil attacking him.

_Ashira... I won't... _

_**I won't let this happen!**_

Like a dam giving way, an arrow taking flight, all restraint finally crumbled within the vindicator's mind as he at last accepted what had to be done, loosing all the mental shackles he had unconsciously kept in place.

The full liberated power of the Holy Light erupted within Cyros, his eyes blazing a fiery golden yellow. An immensely powerful bolt of blessed energy leapt forth from the draenei's body, Ashira staggering back, her face twisted in shock and anger. Before it could connect, the vindicator reached out, regaining control, and formed it into a renewed barrier around him, a golden shield of divine energy that enclosed him completely in its protective embrace.

Ashira snarled as she felt the sudden enormity of the enemy standing before her and then hissed venomously as she directed her full fury against Cyros. For a moment, the paladin stood silent and still, a living statue, seemingly shocked by what he had managed to accomplish. His shield was impervious to her horrific power, however, the continuous storm of rippling fel-lightning slashing and stabbing to crackle across the barrier, but otherwise reflecting harmlessly away, exploding the thick stone of the floor and walls.

At last, the vindicator's golden eyes focused on Ashira and he began walking towards her. His passage was slow and deliberate, but steady and relentless, his golden orbs unblinking despite the terrible barrage of corrupted lightning being directed at him. His expression was impassive, betraying nothing.

Just as the draenei reached her, the blood elf mage raised her hands in one last effort, summoning forth a vast, swirling sphere of fel-energy and hurling it at Cyros with a scream of frustration and hate. The sphere exploded across the holy shield to no effect and the vindicator reached out with a hand to tenderly stroke her cheek.

"Ashira..." Cyros whispered gently, his face softening as his lips formed a sad smile. "No more. Come back to me."

The blood elf recoiled from his touch as if stung, her face twisted by rage, hate, and now fear. All former coyness and sensuality had long since vanished, leaving behind only the raw fury concealed within.

"I told you before," Ashira spat, her hands raised, fingers curled like claws. "The one you knew no longer exists! I am _all_ that remains!"

Cyros shook his head firmly, his eyes narrowing, but didn't approach, instead reaching out for what he had sensed earlier.

"Untrue," He said, his voice rising, chill and stern. "Ashira still remains, despite all that you've done to suppress her." He raised a gauntleted hand slowly, golden fire crackling about his fingers. "Be gone, demon spawn! I cast you out in the name of the Holy Light!"

Golden energy lashed out in an instant, enclosing the blood elf in a tight cocoon. Ashira screamed horribly and Cyros' jaw clenched tight at the sound, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the task of cleansing the corruption from the blood elf's body. The holy power tore upward from her ankles to head. Moving quickly, but carefully, the vindicator began locating and destroying every source of major demonic influence, lancing each in turn like one would a boil and burning away the filthy remnants.

But before the paladin could finish, he was interrupted by a roar of rage from above.

* * *

Duke Greythar seethed with overwhelming anger, his eyes wide, burning furiously.

The death knight now at last understood what he faced and the depth of his mistake. The draenei vindicator's fighting instincts, holy powers, and martial skills had been steadily honed over years of battle until Cyros had the _faith_, both in himself and in the Holy Light, to challenge otherworldly foes beyond mortal comprehension in his crusade against the Darkness. That same faith had been shaken before at the battle outside of Andorhal, and most likely even several times before that confrontation, but had never truly crumbled and had always risen stronger than before with every victory over the twin plagues of doubt and uncertainty.

Greythar had underestimated how far one's faith would drive them to go, but now he saluted it as one of the deadliest weapons known to exist, even as he cursed himself for a fool for not seeing this before. Belief and faith had kept the vindicator fighting well beyond the point a lesser warrior's willpower would have given in, succumbing to cowardice and hopelessness.

And yet at the same time, the death knight knew somehow that Cyros no longer fought against him personally; it had grown beyond that, a mere duel of vengeance. Now it was a war against that which had corrupted Greythar, the terrible evil that had contaminated and twisted him into the monster he was. The same evil the Black Duke had at last embraced in his despair as the hatred against all grew overpowering.

No matter. Greythar acknowledged he had misjudged Cyros, it was true, but the death knight had come too far to be stopped now.

It was time to personally end this.

* * *

Before the vindicator could react, a bolt of the purest black shot down to strike Ashira in the back. The blood elf fell forward, a scream of agony choking away in her throat as she collapsed into unconsciousness. The draenei lunged forward at once to catch her in his left arm, even as he raised his right arm protectively around her, warhammer still clenched in the tight fist.

Duke Greythar's voice echoed down from above.

"I didn't believe you could've survived against her, Cyros! I must admit, I _am_ impressed. You are far more than any mere paladin I've encountered before. What _are_ you?"

The vindicator gently lowered Ashira's unmoving body to the ground, laying her down carefully against the floor, before rising to his hooves, his golden eyes flaring brighter as he stared up at his foe hovering above.

"I am Cyros," The draenei replied levelly. "Vindicator. I am an avatar of the Holy Light; retribution incarnate. I am the right hand of those murdered by the Darkness in whatever forms it may take; the avenging wrath for those that have no one else to act for them. And I am your end, servant of the Lich King."

"Is that so?" The Black Duke snarled, raising his ebony rune-sword in both hands. "We'll see..._vindicator_!"

The death knight descended in a rush, his weapon cleaving down and his cloak flapping out wide behind him like the spread wings of a deadly bird of prey.

Cyros immediately swung his warhammer up to block the death knight's strike and the two weapons met with a thunderous impact. The force shuddered through the paladin, shaking him from arms to hooves, threatening to jar the warhammer from his hands. The sheer strength of the blow forced him down onto his left knee, his armored leg smashing into the stone beneath to crater it with shattering force. The shockwave of the meeting weapons rumbled across the Chapel's main chamber, dust, loose mortar, and cracked masonry cascading down from the walls and ceiling.

Within an instant, true combat was joined as the vindicator fought the death knight body-to-body and soul-to-soul, their weapons clashing and tearing. Buoyed up and strengthened by tremendous power, they battled unceasingly across the main chamber. Wood splintered and cracked at their mere approach, hardened stone blocks shattered into deadly sprays of jagged shards, even the ground beneath their feet quaked and buckled as if in protest at the forces clashing above it. Their weapons lashed out continuously, striking as hard and fast as bolts of lightning.

With a shout of rage, Greythar sent Cyros reeling back with a furious slash of his rune-sword. The blow tore the warhammer from the vindicator's hands and sent it tumbling across the floor, leaving the draenei defenseless. Cyros dodged a downward chop that would have split him in two had it connected, but received a devastating kick just below his chest that actually dented his breastplate. He was sent stumbling back to crash into the wall behind him. Roaring in triumph, Greythar sprang forward, his rune-sword stabbing out to impale the momentarily helpless vindicator.

Jerking aside, Cyros bit back a gasp of agony as the evil blade sliced easily through his plate armor, cutting into his side. A cold so freezing that it seared his nerves like fire spread outward from the wound. The draenei's large hands shot out, seizing the death knight by the spikes adorning his shoulder plates. Jerking Greythar towards him, Cyros smashed his forehead into the nothingness of his opponent's face in a brutal headbutt. He smiled in bestial joy, baring his teeth, as he felt a solid impact, Greythar grunting in surprise and pain. Slamming a knee up into his opponent's midriff, the draenei then spun to his left, yanking the death knight with him, and hurled Greythar bodily into a nearby support pillar, the impact splintering it almost its entire length. Striding forward, Cyros delivered a stunning barrage of punches that crushed the Black Duke further into the pillar, the thick stone cracking and shattering behind him.

A black armored hand snaked out amidst the thunderous blows to seize Cyros by the throat, beads of blood springing from his neck as the sharp claws of the gauntlet dug into his dark blue flesh. The vindicator managed one last defiant strike to the death knight's face, before Greythar, bellowing in rage, threw him back over twenty strides. Cyros managed to roll awkwardly with the impact, absorbing it and rising to his hooves. Muscles burning with fatigue, lungs heaving as he gulped down air, he beheld the Black Duke was almost upon him, rune-sword raised high, red eyes blazing.

Glancing around almost frantically, the vindicator at last located his warhammer lying amidst the remnants of a shattered wooden pew. He raised a hand, a tendril of golden lightning lashing out to seize the weapon and whip it back into his grasp just as the death knight's rune-sword began transcribing its deadly arc downwards. Cyros swung his warhammer up at the last moment.

Rune-sword met warhammer as the two weapons slammed into each other, monstrous blows that seemed as if they could level mountains with their power. The ground heaved and shook beneath the vindicator and death knight like a terrible earthquake at the force of the impact, cracks tearing rapidly like jagged spider webs up through the already crumbling walls and pillars. Energies crackled along the lengths of both weapons, struggling against one another, golden light flaring against wintry blue. Like their encounter in the forest before, which now seemed as if it had happened years ago, Cyros found himself staring into the burning eyes of Duke Greythar, but this time the vindicator's gaze was unwavering and resolute.

"Your resistance is useless, Cyros!" The Black Duke hissed as the two strained against one another. "Death itself holds no dominion over me! I draw on power the living cannot hope to match!"

"You're wrong, _my lord_," Cyros growled through gritted teeth, his eyebrows furrowed into a glare. "The Holy Light is more than a match for you!"

Heaving suddenly, the vindicator hurled the death knight back, his undead adversary snarling in surprise.

"Begone!" The draenei thundered, eyes flashing as he raised his left fist, holy energies burning around it. "Your time on this world has come to an end!"

The powerful holy bolt shot forth, a massive blast of golden fire.

Moments before it landed, Greythar threw back his hooded head and laughed contemptuously, his eyes blazing brighter. Effortlessly, he slapped the holy bolt aside to explode the wall behind him. Choking clouds of dust and debris sprayed out and Cyros instinctively threw up both arms to shield his face, leaning forward as if bracing against a coming storm, his tail curling in tightly as shards of stone and mortar ricocheted off his plate armor.

Greythar strode slowly forward from the dust cloud, emerging unharmed, a dark harbinger of doom. He spread his arms wide, raising them up, as he ascended unhurriedly into the air, hovering once more before the vindicator.

"Is that all?" The Black Duke shouted down mockingly from above. "Is that all you have to throw against me?"

Cyros didn't answer - _couldn't_ answer - instead glaring silently at his seemingly unstoppable foe. The draenei's lungs burned with exhaustion, muscles trembling uncontrollably, his body engulfed by a weariness so absolute he felt as if his very bones cried out for respite. Greythar, on the other hand, seemed to possess endless wellsprings of energy and strength he could draw on. For the first time in this battle, as he gazed up at the death knight, Cyros knew the first barest flicker of despair, twin fists of ice tightening about his hearts.

The death knight laughed harshly, the sound echoing down, as if he knew what the draenei was thinking. His eyes glowed brightly.

"Did you think it was merely _one_ enemy you faced here, Cyros?" Greythar called down scornfully. "I wield the might of the Scourge itself! Strong as death am I, vindicator! Do you see? _I am __**legion**__!_"

And yes, Cyros _did_ see...

As if in some terrifying nightmare that had somehow intruded on the waking realm, the Black Duke was suddenly surrounded by a vast spectral army of undead that filled the main chamber. The ghostly and haunting figures stretched off into the distance. Zombies, ghouls, abominations, gargoyles, and other far worse horrors for which mortals had no names, they all stared at the vindicator as one, their eyes glowing blood-red. Cyros could _feel_ their combined hate and rage, their singular desire to destroy the world of the living.

And above all else, he felt that one cold and implacable will, looming ominously above all else like an impenetrable storm cloud, a vast glacier of ice as black as obsidian.

"_Arthas..._" The vindicator whispered, as if raising his voice any further might somehow summon the dread Lich King into his very presence.

The intensity of the feeling emanating from the entire undead horde before him forced the holy paladin back unwillingly until he had nowhere else to go, one of the scarred and uncaring walls of Light's Hope Chapel blocking his retreat.

The loud scrape of stone against his plate armor seemed to shock Cyros back to his senses, as if icy water had been thrown into his face. With a start, he realized _where_ he was and that same thought sent a grim smile flitting across the paladin's face, his confidence once again soaring.

"And what do you find so amusing, vindicator?" Greythar asked, advancing closer, eyes narrowing in open malevolence.

Cyros looked back up once more at his foe, this time with deadly focus and renewed determination.

"Did you forget as well, scion of darkness?" The vindicator said in a low tone, his smile deepening into one of savage confidence. "When we last fought, it was at the gates of your stronghold; it was a battle on _your_ terms..."

The vindicator slowly raised a clenched fist.

"But _here_," He continued, his voice rising to a triumphant roar.

"_Here we stand on holy ground!_"

Even before Cyros had finished, the floor of Light's Hope Chapel had begun shuddering, the rumbling becoming greater with each passing moment until the mortar surrounding every single block of stone erupted with a dazzling golden radiance. The spectral undead army surrounding Greythar howled and roared as they were banished into misty nothingness by the sudden flare of raw holy power, drawn from the blessed ground and the anointed Chapel itself. Cyros raised his other arm high as well, his jaw clenching tight and eyes narrowing in supreme concentration as he willed the divine storm into himself. He became a focus for it until his entire body was engulfed, flooding the entire main chamber with blinding illumination.

When the light finally dissipated, Cyros remained, looking much the same as ever before. However, when examined more carefully, one could see no signs of any former injuries, an armored body that now bulged with renewed strength, and golden eyes that glowed like miniature stars.

Surprisingly, Greythar merely laughed harshly as he hovered closer, glaring down at the paladin.

"A splendid light show, Cyros; you've drawn holy strength from the very ground itself as well as this accursed Chapel. A commendable achievement; I've never seen the like before. But even with that power, you're still no match against the might of the Scourge! You're still a single warrior; _one_ against many! You stand here before me..._alone_."

A soft, bone-weary, yet still determined voice spoke unexpectedly.

"You're wrong, death knight. He is _not_ alone."

Greythar whirled to his left in surprise, his eyes burning as he regarded in shocked silence Ashira standing close by. He could only watch as the exhausted blood elf tottered weakly over to stand by Cyros, resting her left hand on his right arm for support. Ashira's veins were still disturbingly distended, bright green fel-energy still pulsing through her, but the death knight sensed the demonic corruption fouling her body had been mostly cleansed. _She_ was now firmly in control of the great power within and that didn't bode well for him. For the first time in over twenty years since he had fallen, Greythar felt the first tingling of..._something_.

He believed that long ago he would have called it _fear_...

The death knight noted that if Cyros was surprised by this sudden turn of events, he gave no outward sign, merely nodding at Ashira, who returned his nod with a slight one of her own as well as a faint smile. Greythar could sense the draenei's feelings though and knew he exulted at Ashira's well-being.

"So... This is how it is to be?" The Black Duke whispered somewhat incredulously as he gazed down at the vindicator and mage.

His voice rose to a commanding shout in the next instant as he gestured sharply with his rune-sword.

"Very well then! Step forward! The two of you together do not suffice against me!"

"Are you ready?" Cyros asked Ashira, his golden eyes fixed firmly on the hovering death knight.

"Yes," Came the blood elf's simple reply as she raised her hands, arcs of brilliant green energy coiling around her fingers and crackling up along her arms.

Without another word, the vindicator launched himself upward, powering forward at Duke Greythar in a mighty leap, his warhammer drawn back over his head for a crushing blow.

* * *

**((Below is a scene I'm planning for Post Tenebras Lux's sequel, _Rise of the Lich King_. I hope you enjoy the preview/teaser.))**

"Vindicator! Behold what your defiance has earned you!" Baron Rivendare thundered as he hefted up a heavy spear. It was a vile, hell-forged weapon; the long wicked blade was rusty and cruelly barbed, and the thick black haft trailed a long length of rusted, spike-studded chain.

With a triumphant laugh as jagged as broken glass, the death knight hurled the spear at Ashira with a mighty throw. The deadly weapon flashed across the distance separating the two like an unstoppable thunderbolt, hurtling along the wall top with the rattling chain uncoiling in its wake.

Taken by surprise, the blood elf could only stand rooted to the spot, her emerald-green eyes widening in shock and fear. Ashira knew she should act, knew she should unleash a spell to save herself, but she found her mind blank and could only stand there, frozen, as terror paralyzed her.

Even as the spearhead filled her vision entirely, she closed her eyes in finality.

_Cyros, I'm so sorry... Please forgive me..._

Ashira felt an unexpected rush of wind before her accompanied by a rough, clanking shuffle as something large landed heavily against the debris-strewn wall top. She heard a gurgling grunt of pain an instant later and felt warm liquid spatter across her face and neck.

Opening her eyes slowly, almost carefully, she gasped in shock not at the bloody spearhead still quivering from impact mere inches from her chest, but at the dark blue blood dripping from the jagged, corroded metal. Her eyes rose slowly, widening as they traced a horrified path along the haft and up to the armored back from which the spear protruded obscenely. There was no mistaking the silvery armor engraved with dwarf runes of protection, the towering form, and the black spiky hair.

"By the Sunwell, no!" She whispered, her breath catching in her throat, but then her voice instantly rose to a shrill scream of despair and denial. "Cyros! Gods, no! _Cyros!_"

The draenei vindicator took in a shuddering breath, choking on the blood that filled his mouth. The pain was hideous, excruciating, and he had to savagely bite back the scream of agony that threatened to burst from his lungs. The spear had pierced his sternum, splitting his primary heart, but, luckily enough, had barely missed severing his spinal column. His second heart beat a wild tattoo against his chest as he took a shuffling step forward, almost collapsing from the pain coursing through his body. Cyros reached out weakly, grasping like a drowning man, for a merlon atop the wall to support him as he awkwardly stumbled around to face Ashira.

Her face was smudged by dirt and ash, her hair was tangled and unkempt, and Cyros saw his own blood mixed with dark gore across her chest and neck. He tried to smile, but almost doubled up instead as he coughed up more blood, spitting to clear his throat and mouth. Even in a battle that seemed to signify the end of the world, even through his dimming vision, she was still beautiful. His legs crumpled beneath him and he collapsed forward onto the wall, struggling to hold himself up.

Ashira rushed forward at once to help him, tears leaving streaks along her face. Her hands scrabbled along his shoulders and chest as she tried to find handholds to help brace him.

"Cyros, you'll be fine, you'll be fine," She tried to repeat reassuringly, but her voice rose again to a frantic shriek only a moment later as she glanced around the walltop in desperation. "Help! Help me! _Gods, someone help me!_"

The harsh clamor of the battle raging in the streets of Stormwind City below and all across the walls around her smothered her words utterly, drowning them beneath the cacophony of war.

"Ashira..." Cyros wheezed, raising a hand to stroke her face gently, almost listlessly. "Ashira, never forget-" His voice broke down into violent coughs that shook his body as he spat out more blood. "Never forget I love you..."

"Don't talk like that!" The blood elf mage whispered fiercely in reply, tears still coursing down her cheeks as she struggled to pull the draenei paladin to his hooves. "This isn't over! You're going to be all right!"

A wan smile flitted across Cyros' bloody lips. He opened his mouth and seemed about to reply when he was suddenly torn bodily from her arms and dragged momentarily along the wall before being hauled into the air.

"_No!_" Ashira screamed as Cyros was ripped from her grasp and carried up, dangling helplessly like a harpooned fish.

"A worthy prize!" Came the shouted reply and she glanced higher to see the vindicator was hanging from Baron Rivendare's skeletal gryphon. It flung its head back to loose an unearthly shriek, as if echoing its master's words.

The death knight laughed harshly as he presented Ashira a mocking salute.

"Another champion of the Light falls before the might of the Scourge, blood elf! But this one doesn't deserve the honor of a swift death! Never fear, we shall meet again, and soon! But when we do, you will find this draenei serves a new power!"

Ashira's mouth dropped open in horror at the sinister implication of the death knight's words.

_Ashira, if we should fall-_

_ Never fear, they will not have us._

"No..." Ashira whispered slowly, her eyes narrowing as her voice dropped low in deadly threat, dark and furious. Her eyebrows furrowed as her hands curled into tight fists, her knuckles whitening from the tension as her body trembled uncontrollably. Her jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding audibly together.

"No, he isn't yours... I won't let you take him..."

She raised her head to glare in mounting fury at the laughing Horseman. Her eyes blazed emerald-green and her body seemed to swell with monstrous power, her veins visibly distending, swelling obscenely beneath her flesh. Ashira raised both hands slowly from her sides, fingers spreading wide. Jagged energies crackled across her body, rippling from her like unnatural lightning to lash across the stone of the wall beneath her, and her loose hair whipped about her head in some unfelt gale.

Her voice was a banshee scream, piercing and terrible, echoing across the unnaturally dark sky.

"_**I won't let you take him from me!**_"


	12. Final Battle, Part 2

The ground quaked and shook beneath Commander Eligor Dawnbringer's armored feet, jostling him violently from side to side, threatening to send him tumbling to the ground. It was all he could do to keep his footing, stumbling back and forth. A ghoul lunged awkwardly at him, black claws outstretched, but he smashed it aside in the next instant with an armored gauntlet, the heavy plate breaking its jaw and sending fragments of shattered teeth flying.

"By the Earth Mother, what's happening?" Falstad roared over the growing tumult and the Argent Dawn Commander could only point at the nearby Light's Hope Chapel, cracks forming across all of its stone walls, spreading deeply up the very bell tower itself.

The entire structure was surrounded in an unnatural glow and through the broken windows and cracked walls, the High Thane could see unearthly light blazing within: brilliant gold, bright emerald green, deep icy blue, and, every once in a while, a pure eye-aching darkness.

"To the Chapel!" Eligor shouted raggedly. "We have to help Cyros!"

"Aye!" Falstad called out in return, but his reply was snatched away by the howling wind and the thunder rumbling beneath.

The High Thane knew the odds of them actually reaching Light's Hope were slim at best. Scores of undead still stood between the remnants of the two allied armies and the Chapel.

But nevertheless, they had to try.

* * *

With a stifled shout of pain, Cyros was sent tumbling across the unyielding floor in a heavy clatter of armor against stone. He rolled for over fifteen strides before crashing into a support pillar. Stone fragments flew at the bone-crushing impact, the pillar cracking and splintering. Pausing only for an instant to spit out a mouthful of blue blood, the vindicator immediately planted his warhammer firmly, using it to help shove himself back up to his hooves. He wavered unsteadily for a moment, his head pounding from the force of the blow, stars flashing in his vision.

"Cyros!" Ashira cried out, alarmed, glancing back. Her head jerked back around as she screamed, "You bastard!" at the advancing death knight. Her fingers formed claws as she summoned a swirling, white-hot fireball between her hands, before hurling it at Greythar.

The Black Duke's withering laughter flayed her like a whip as he raised both gauntlets, a barrier of pure darkness rising before him to absorb the fireball.

Despite his outward confidence, concern nevertheless arose in Greythar's mind as the sheer power behind the spell, augmented beyond anything he had encountered before, drove him back across the chamber, his booted feet tearing long, twin gouges in the floor. It took every ounce of his concentration and strength to maintain his defenses, lest the fire break through and consume him utterly, his head bowed slightly and his body leaning forward.

Looking past the crackling flames, he gazed into Ashira's emerald-green eyes. They were wide and flaring, her face twisted into a tight grimace of focus and pain, her exhaustion evident despite her desire to destroy him, even as she forced her spell ever closer.

"_I grow weary of your resistance, blood elf_," Greythar hissed, manifesting his insidious words directly into her mind. "_You couldn't defeat me before and you won't be able to now. This farce only perpetuates what we both know to be true: you are, and have always been, __**weak**__. Here and now, you will die: I will burn your soul to dust and raise your empty shell to be my slave for all eternity!_"

Almost immediately he encountered a deep-rooted opposition within Ashira. Her very will seemed to rise before him - vast, steely, and adamant as it never had been before - and he was flung from her mind like a stone launched from a catapult.

"Enough of this!" The Black Duke growled aloud in mounting annoyance as he pressed out with his hands.

The death knight's shield of darkness expanded outward, engulfing and then absorbing the fireball spell completely, before stretching out into a long, piercing lance that shot towards Ashira. The lance exploded against the blood elf mage's chest before she could react, sending her flying with a ragged scream to crash into a far wall. She tumbled to the floor facedown, seemingly lifeless, a puppet whose strings had just been cut.

Greythar's glowing eyes flared brighter at Cyros' hoarse and wordless shout of denial and rage. Without hesitating, the death knight shot forward, driving an armored shoulder into the vindicator's chest. The draenei paladin crashed back through the pillar behind him, smashing clear through it in a spray of stone to crater the one behind it.

Cyros collapsed onto one knee, blood flowing from dozens of wounds across his body, much of his armor plate torn and crumpled. Even though he still held his warhammer firmly in his right hand, his left arm hung limply at his side, now shattered and useless. He could barely raise his head to look up at Greythar as the death knight came striding up to him, the heavy footfalls of his boots echoing steadily throughout the crumbling chamber like the tramp of doom.

Reaching down, the Black Duke seized Cyros by the throat with his left hand, jerking the vindicator roughly to his hooves and slamming him back against the pillar.

"I seem to recall a scene similar to this, paladin," Greythar whispered harshly, leaning in close so that his unblinking red eyes were mere inches from Cyros' golden ones. "Only during that previous occasion, you were telling me to let Ashira go. Well, who is coming to _your_ rescue, vindicator? What pathetic and desperate insect will come crawling forth to demand I free _you_?"

"Why-Why do you hesitate then?" Cyros rasped, unafraid. "Ashira's gone and I'm hardly a threat to you right now. What's stopping you from ending this?"

"Nothing! Nothing is stopping me, damn you!" Greythar snarled, tightening his grip until the vindicator was gasping for breath, choking to death in his grasp.

The death knight raised the rune-sword gripped tightly in his right fist, preparing to plunge the weapon into the draenei's sternum and pierce his primary heart. For a long moment, the Black Duke could only stare into Cyros' golden eyes, unable to understand why there still remained within his being a last shred of hesitation, of..._doubt_.

Seizing the opportunity, the draenei vindicator began chanting, the words rough and choking as he forced them through gritted teeth and a constricted throat.

"In...the name...of the Holy Light..." He gasped.

Greythar chuckled coldly.

"What's this?" He growled, cocking his head to one side, his eyes narrowing. "Your final prayer for deliverance before I end your pitiful existence? By all means, speak your last words before I cast your screaming soul down into the Abyss."

The vindicator didn't respond, instead forging ahead, his golden eyes burning brighter as the words were spoken.

"Though Darkness...covers the world...understand...and know...that beyond the Shadow...there always comes a new dawn...and with it-"

"What are you doing?" The death knight snapped, sensing the sudden surge of holy power within the draenei's body. Comprehension struck him a hammer blow and, eyes flaring, he began to shout, "No-!"

"_And with it, the rise of a new Light!_"

Twin bolts of holy power shot forth from the paladin's eyes, the exorcism burning deep into the black nothingness enshrouding Greythar's face and head. The death knight screamed horribly as the banishment took hold, but instead of the raw destruction he was expecting, he instead felt an explosive starburst of pain deep within, as if vast walls crumbled within an instant in his mind.

He staggered and writhed at the strange sensation, still holding grimly onto Cyros even as his body spasmed beyond his control. Images flashed in and out of focus and he vaguely recognized them as memories. Emotions he had thought long forgotten swelled upward, a vast, torrential flood of sensations as the exorcism pierced cleanly through, a surgeon's scalpel lancing the overwhelming rage and hate that had occupied nearly every corner of his mind. Years of seemingly unending battle, death, bloodshed, and atrocities beyond description and comprehension fell away, shed like the crumbling flakes of a rotten fruit to leave at the core one single moment of absolute and crystal-clear _human_ clarity that could not be denied.

The death knight _knew_ what had been done to him by Cyros. He understood what the vindicator was hoping to accomplish, to create this internal struggle between what he was and what he had once been, but strangely, such knowledge didn't enrage him as it would have before. He recognized this last desperate effort for victory...but...

His eyes dimmed as he struggled within his mind, searching for the correct meaning, the exact words to express his understanding.

It was more than a mere grasp at triumph by the paladin. It was one last attempt for salvation. The deliverance of Trevor Greythar's eternal soul, damned as it was.

* * *

Cyros hardly moved a muscle where he stood, almost on the verge of sagging in Greythar's iron grip. This exorcism had been his last resort, should his battle be to no avail against one of the first death knights ever to have been created over twenty years ago, a terrible perversion of the formerly noble and honorable knights of Stormwind.

His breathing was shallow and ragged as he sucked in air desperately through a throat still squeezed almost completely shut, but still he didn't raise even a finger in struggle, keeping tight, disciplined control over his body. This was a confrontation that would be fought within Greythar; the vindicator would do nothing to distract the death knight from it.

There were but a few endings that could arise from this internal conflict of crystal-clear self-insight and Cyros knew that very soon he would see first-hand which one of them had come out the victor. He would have to be ready to take advantage of any weakness that presented itself and thus he prepared the last of his waning strength.

* * *

"Can there be Light after Darkness?" The Black Duke whispered musingly, staring down at the stone floor.

For a minute, his eyes seemed to wander aimlessly of their own accord across the floor and walls of the Chapel, all else forgotten. His gaze at last settled on a piece of stained glass, half-melted, but still discernable.

The image of a kneeling paladin.

Greythar's thoughts flashed back to the picture of Alonsus Faol anointing the paladins who kneeled before him in silent devotion; of his father kneeling before King Llane, always ready and prepared to serve his liege as a noble warrior.

_Pride_... _That_ is what he had felt whenever he gazed upon his father in the full regalia and armor of a knight of Stormwind. He remembered he had wanted that for so long...

If things had been different, could he...?

But with so much darkness in the world, with truly vile evils such as himself running rampant, what was the Holy Light in comparison?

Even now, one of the Light's stronger champions was broken and defeated in his grasp. A single hard squeeze would end Cyros' life here and now. Even Prince Arthas himself had fallen victim to that which he had once sought to destroy, arguably one of the greatest of all Knights of the Silver Hand.

Greythar's eyes narrowed as he gazed unblinkingly upon the stained glass image.

How could the Holy Light even hope to triumph against the Darkness when led by champions that fell all too easily, corrupted or destroyed?

Where were the true heroes, the stalwart defenders that had the strength to resist and drive back ones such as he?

"_**Let...him...go.**_"

Greythar hesitated, glancing over at the risen blood elf, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, her head lowered and her chest rising and falling steadily with each deep rasping breath she took. Her entire body was trembling, muscles tight and tense.

The death knight couldn't stop his glowing eyes from widening in shock. Twice now, through overconfidence or some other failing, he had thought her ended and each time he had been proven wrong.

If he had been wrong about that, then perhaps-

Ashira's head snapped up to glare at him, her eyes blazing.

"_**I said let him go, monster!**_"

Her hands shot up, fel-lightning crackling from them, reaching out for the death knight.

Cursing, Greythar dodged back, hurling Cyros at Ashira's feet even as he swept up his rune-sword, erecting a sphere of misty darkness around him to ward off her furious assault. His answering bolt of black flame burst through her protections and smashed her to the floor.

"Ashira!" Cyros cried out, even as he labored to rise from where he had fallen.

As he rose at last, the vindicator flung himself at Greythar with a hoarse shout. Gripping his warhammer in both hands, despite the broken bones in his left arm, the paladin swung the crystal weapon down at the death knight's head. It smashed into the shield protecting Greythar, holy energies blazing against ebon darkness. Gritting his teeth, Cyros strained to force the warhammer closer, but could not.

_Impossible!_ The death knight thought, watching the struggling vindicator in stunned silence.

_He's still trying... He still believes... And I...I stopped believing so long ago..._

Raising his left gauntleted hand, palm outward and fingers spread, Greythar concentrated his power, forming an ever-growing bolt of raw necromantic energy, the last blow that would finish this battle. Cyros' exorcism had forced a change within him; the Black Duke could feel it deep within. If he didn't end this now, nothing would ever be the same.

For a moment, the death knight's glowing eyes momentarily locked with Cyros'. Greythar saw no defeat in those golden orbs, beheld no despair or desperation. Instead, all he could see was... What did he see in those eyes? Pity? Sadness? Regret? And something more... Belief? Hope?

Fel-lightning blazed across his shield of darkness in the next instant, interrupting his thoughts, and he glanced over to see Ashira had risen as well. Her face was twisted with agony and her body was wavering with exhaustion, but he could see the unbroken defiance in her eyes.

The blood elf's lips moved slightly and the death knight heard her words as clearly as if she was standing right beside him.

"_Selama ashal'anore_."

The sphere of swirling, sickly green power grew ever larger before his outstretched left hand, but still he hesitated, his own thoughts returning hauntingly.

_Where were the true heroes, the stalwart defenders that had the strength to resist and drive back ones such as he?_

Did such ones stand before him here and now?

Was there perhaps hope for the Light after all?

The voice that suddenly echoed within his mind was slow, deep, and commanding, filled with black malice, a vast storm rumbling on the horizon.

_Greythar... _

_Greythar, finish them. End this now._

The death knight felt the frozen presence press down upon him like a leaden weight as the Lich King exerted his formidable will. Still he hesitated, torn, and now the rising anger reached him, the unquenchable fury.

_You may have been one of the first, but never forget that you still serve __**me**__, Greythar! You are still bound to __**me**__! Obey your master! Slay them __**now**__!_

The Black Duke's eyes dimmed for a long moment as if in consideration, before burning brighter than ever before and his reply was a single word, spoken quietly, but clearly.

_No_.

The rage and shock shook him almost immediately and he staggered as if struck by a physical blow.

_**What**__? You __**dare**__ disobey me?_

_Yes, I dare! For I see now, finally, what I am! What I have always been, but had forgotten long ago! __**I am Trevor Greythar: Duke of Stormwind, Knight of Azeroth, and I defy you!**_

And with those last exultant words, the death knight dropped the shield protecting him.

Ashira's fel-lightning tore across his armored body, but the overwhelming agony was nothing compared to the sheer _relief_ he now felt, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his stooping shoulders. He stretched with sheer joy at the sensation, his arms spread wide and head thrown back, even as the blood elf's fel-energies disintegrated his fleshless form.

As Cyros' warhammer flashed down to finally end his unlife, Greythar stared at the oncoming weapon, the crystal head wreathed in holy fire, with eagerness coupled with regret. The death knight knew he was not destined to join his family and his father in the Holy Light. No, a reckoning awaited him in the world beyond, an eternity of atonement for all that he had done before. This final death was but the first step on that journey of penance.

Nevertheless, this ending felt _right_ and he was sorry he never had the courage, the will, the _faith_, to do this himself long ago.

_They were the end of me..._ The death knight whispered in grim finality to his enraged former master. _And they will be the end of __**you**__._

What little remained of Trevor Greythar's lost humanity rejoiced as Cyros' warhammer struck home with terrible force.

_Finally, after so very long, redemption at last..._

An instant before his warhammer landed, Cyros felt an abrupt change within Duke Greythar. For a moment so short he thought it surely was his imagination, the vindicator believed he felt..._relief_ emanate from the death knight and a spark of pure gratitude.

_Farewell..._

But the conflicting energies, holy against necromantic, couldn't be contained.

The vindicator felt his warhammer quiver violently in his gauntleted hands, his arms shuddering and teeth clacking together, and then it fairly exploded, bursting apart in his hands from the backlash of energies. Crying out sharply in shock and denial as if it were a part of _him_ that had just been destroyed, the draenei paladin squeezed his eyes shut instinctively as he turned his head and ducked protectively to one side with a sharp jerk. Jagged shards of adamantite and gleaming purple crystal stormed up into his face and neck, drawing spurts of blue blood as they slashed deeply into exposed flesh.

In the next instant, Cyros felt himself yanked back into Ashira's arms by her arcane power. As he reached her, the draenei paladin spun around, engulfing the blood elf in a protective embrace. Their eyes locked, gazing deeply, and the vindicator felt the terrible loss of his weapon recede for a moment as he looked upon the beautiful mage.

"_Cyros-_"

"_Ashira-_"

And then the vindicator crushed the blood elf against him, driving the breath from her lungs, striving to shield her with his own armored body as Light's Hope Chapel exploded in fire around them, the weakened walls and ceiling collapsing down in a cascading avalanche of heavy stone to bury them under tons of debris.

* * *

((Here's another excerpt from _Post Tenebras Lux_'s sequel I thought some at least might enjoy))

Cyros' breath caught in his throat, his teeth clenching tight as he gazed with narrowed eyes down upon the terrifying sight before him. Ashira's right hand squeezed his left tightly as she, too, gasped aloud in shock. The knowledge of what they were about to face had not prepared either for the overwhelming reality.

The vast undead horde stood in ranks uncountable before the walls of Stormwind City. It was an unstoppable tide of rotting, pestilent flesh and withered muscle that threatened to drown the world in filth.

In the lead were packs of scampering geists. These men and women, once some of the most vicious of murderers or robbers, they had all met justice by means of the headsman's axe or the gallows' noose. Now lean and gangrel, utterly repulsive, they hissed and cackled as they leapt about, as swift and agile as foxes and now far, far stronger in undeath. Behind these were scores of monkey-like ghouls and shuffling zombies intermixed, seemingly as numberless as the blades of grass across a field. Fingernails, long since hardened into grimy black claws, and broken yellowed fangs provided the ghouls with natural weapons, but the staggering, stumbling living dead alongside them were armed with myriad weapons ranging from corroded pitchforks and other farming tools, to rusty swords and spears, to simple clubs crudely hacked from thick tree limbs. Huge, lumbering abominations - grotesque amalgamations of dozens of rotting corpses - towered above all the others. And finally, behind all of these were the more disciplined ranks of skeletal warrior elite, wights and revenants with eyes of blood-red fire and bearing blackened swords and shields, axes and maces, and armored in dirt-encrusted plate and chainmail.

Looming above the undead army, taller than even the greatest of the abomination monstrosities, were hideous siege towers. Each was created from an unholy combination of wood, bone, and dozens of fused corpses, black sorcery binding the towers' forms together. And placed in a long line at the edge of Elwynn Forest were over two dozen foul meat-wagon catapults, their unliving crews already stumbling about to load them with heavy boulders, each wrapped around with squirming, plague-blackened bodies.

Hovering ominously over the Scourge horde, high above even the walls of Stormwind City itself, was a heavily fortified necropolis. It was a vile, pyramid-shaped floating fortress of bone – hard, gleaming white from biting glacial winds - and dark gray stone, immense skulls glaring from each of its four sides. Disgusting green slime dripped from beneath it, the nauseating by-product of the sickening experiments that took place deep within its bowels.

The vast Scourge host stretched as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the shadows of Elwynn Forest. The unnatural darkness that cloaked the land in shadow covered everything from horizon to horizon and it seemed there would be no dawn.

Above the harsh curses and whispered prayers of protection and forgiveness came the drawn out slither of steel on leather. Cyros glanced to his left to see King Varian Wrynn had unsheathed one of his ornate war-swords, holding it firmly in his right fist. The king's battle-scarred face was as hard as granite, his dark eyebrows furrowed as he glared imperiously down at the enemy, and his dark storm-cloud gray eyes were unblinking, devoid of fear and doubt.

Immediately the dozens of footmen and archers crowding the Valley of Heroes' outer defensive wall quieted down as the word was quickly passed along that their king seemed about to speak. Scores of pairs of eyes fixed on Varian Wrynn, staring at him expectantly from along the wall top and down below in the Valley itself, armored hands flexing unconsciously on weapons.

The warrior-king suddenly spun around on his platform, his eyes seeming to meet all of the nervous, but resolute gazes of both the professional soldiers and those conscripted from the citizenry into the ranks of the Royal Army for this battle. He even looked slowly back along the Valley's wide stone bridge to those manning the walls of the inner defenses. Giving a short, fierce nod of reassurance to all watching, Varian took a decisive step forward, his sword darting skyward as he raised it high overhead. He roared a wordless battle-cry, his rough voice booming out deep and powerful, loud and exultant, and his eyes were wide and blazing with fierce intensity.

Within an instant, all of the footmen within hearing distance echoed it back, raising weapons and shields high, shaking them furiously as they exorcised all of their pent-up anxiety and fear in one long, bold shout of rage and hate.

The battle-cry deepened and intensified until it echoed from the very stones of Stormwind, as if the city itself bellowed defiance at its foes even as the first of the siege towers lurched forward towards the walls.


End file.
